Beer, Adderall and a Tequila Chaser
by Harriet Vane
Summary: When Shawn overdoses on ADHD medication in Mexico, Gus, Juliet, and Henry have to unravel the mystery of how Shawn got the drugs and why he took them.
1. 1995 Friday, pm

**Note:** Most of this story takes place in Mexico. Accordingly, many of the conversations would take place in Spanish. Alas, I do not speak Spanish. All conversations that should accrue in Spanish will be italicized. Furthermore, while I did research these topics, I am not an expert in Mexican due process or prescription drugs, so I apologize for any inaccuracies.

I did not invent Psych, or any of the associated characters. I am not making money on this story . . . disclaimer . . . blah blah blah.

**1995 - Tucson, AZ - Friday, p.m.**

"Hi, Mom," Shawn said. His stomach was in knots and his palms were sweaty. She wouldn't be happy to see him. Or maybe she would. Shawn had no idea what to expect, and he was afraid.

"Shawn?" his mother asked. She was clearly surprised to hear from him—but of course she would be.

"Yeah, Mom, I'm here."

"You're here?" She asked. "Here in Tucson?"

"Here on your doorstep," Shawn said, glancing around at the sterile entrance to the cookie-cutter condominium complex. Like every other building in the neighborhood, it had a sand-colored stucco exterior and bright red tile roof. There was a decretive rock garden on the path leading to the door, accented with potted cactuses that bloomed in the moonlight, just like every other building.

"I, ah, I rode here," he explained. "Here to be with you."

"You didn't steal another car, did you?" she asked clearly alarmed.

"What, no!" Shawn said. She wasn't happy. "I bought a bike. I just . . . please, can I come in, Mom, please?"

There was a pause, a very long pause. Then the door buzzed and unlocked. He was too nervous to wait for the elevator, so he bolted up five flights of stairs to her condo. When he got there, she was waiting at the door. She wasn't happy at all.

"Do you have any idea how worried your father and I have been?" she said viciously. "He's called me three times—and I don't have to tell you that he's the last person I wanted to hear from."

"'Hi, Shawn, how was your trip?'" Shawn said, trying to smile despite his mother's withering looks. "I'm so happy that you went through all this trouble just to be with me.'"

"We will not argue in the hallway," his mother said, softening a little. "You look tired."

"It's a nine-hour drive across a desert," Shawn said.

"Get in," his mother said, ushering him into her condo. "I'll get you some milk and we'll discuss it."

Shawn crossed the threshold and realized he'd run further then he'd anticipated. When he'd thought of his mother it was always in the context of their home on the beach. She was lounging on the couch with his dad, she was cooking in the kitchen, she was working in the study. The interior was brown and comfortable—nothing was fragile, everything could withstand the rambunctious antics of a young boy. But her condo was completely different.

The carpeting was white, and the walls were a pale sky blue. The furniture was dainty, probably antiques, and everything was spotless. He had to take off his Doc Martin's as soon as he entered the foyer, and his leather jacket and helmet were quickly stowed in the closet. She led him to a built in breakfast nook with toile cushions and an embroidered linen table cloth. He realized for the first time that his mother wasn't just a mother, she was actually a woman. Moreover, he was starting to suspect that she was the kind of woman who did not like having boys around.

"Now, are you hungry?" she asked. "I think I have some canned soup. There might be some hot-pockets."

"No, I'm fine," Shawn said. He felt so out-of-place—he almost regretted coming.

"Well, let me at least get you some milk," his mother insisted. "And I need to call your father—let him know that you're safe."

"Yeah, I guess," Shawn said, accepting the glass of milk and taking a deep drink because it gave him something to do.

He watched his mother call his father, just as he'd watch his father call his mother so many times. His dad got so heated up—never violent, but sometimes frightening. She was so cool, totally collected and unemotional. Eventually, she hung up, took a deep breath, and sat down at the table across from him. His milk was long gone, but he still stared at the glass, rather then look at her.

"You going to tell me about it, goose?" she asked.

"I found the papers," he said. "Dad left them on the kitchen table—probably so he wouldn't have to tell me."

"And you stole a car," his mother pressed.

"That had nothing to do with it," Shawn said. "I was trying to impress a girl."

"I hope she was impressed," his mother said.

"Look, I spent a night in a holding cell, I paid restitution, I promised never to do it again. It was enough for the judge—why can't it be enough for you?"

"Fair point," she said. "If it was enough for the judge, it's enough for me. But I still want to know why you spent the day riding across the desert instead of going to school."

"School ended last week, mom," Shawn said.

"But isn't graduation tomorrow?" she asked. "I thought Gus was going to give a speech."

"I don't need to be there for Gus to give a speech," Shawn said. "When I saw the divorce papers on the table, it all became so clear. I needed to be here, with you."

"I didn't ask you to come, Shawn," she said soberly. "Your father and I agreed that it would be best for you to stay in a stable environment."

"Why don't you just say what really happened?" Shawn demanded.

"When Dad drove you away you couldn't take me because he's pushy, and aggressive, and demanding. But I'm 18 now, and high school is over, and I can choose to live wherever and with whomever I want. And I want to be with you, Mom. I drove all day . . . I left my best friend, and all my stuff, and Chairman Meow . . . I left my life to be with you—to help you."

"Oh goose," she said, her expression softening. "You really have a tender heart—nothing like your father." She got up and kissed him on the forehead. All Shawn's fears, anxiety and regret melted away with his mother's kiss. "I'll make up the guest room for you. We'll figure things out in the morning."

To be continued . . . .


	2. Present Day: Thursday am

**Present Day**

**Thursday a.m.**

"Jules?" Shawn asked. His voice was low and scratchy, as if he'd lost his voice but was still worried someone would overhear.

"Shawn, is that you?" Juliet responded, not amused.

"I can't find Gus," Shawn said. "Which is good for him, probably, but I don't know what to do."

"He's probably at home, in bed," Juliet said as she pushed herself up so she was sitting in bed. This didn't sound like it was going to be a short conversation. "It's two a.m., you know."

"I . . . I can't remember the hotel," Shawn continued to ramble. "I thought of it, and I had it, but I can't remember. And I have absolutely no idea how many hats are in the room. Which is . . . just don't tell my dad, Ok? I can't handle him right now."

"I'm hanging up, Shawn," Juliet said.

"No, no, no, no, no!" He sounded desperate. "I don't know if I'll get another call. I'm so sorry I called you but . . . but Juliet. I'm so scared. And you . . . I trust you."

"Where are you?" she asked.

"If I knew where Gus was, he could tell you. I just . . . I can't remember."

"Are you in trouble?"

"I've got to think so," Shawn admitted. "But I didn't do anything—I don't remember doing anything."

"Ok, Shawn, I really want to help you, but I have to know what's going on."

"I don't know, Jules," he said. "I can't think. I'm really scared and . . . and I . . ."

"Fine, if you could just tell me where you are, I'll be right there," she said, pushing herself out of bed and turning on the light.

"Mexico," Shawn said.

"You're in Mexico?" Juliet asked.

"I think so," Shawn said. "No one's speaking English and I'm starting to really regret sleeping through Senora Anderson's class."

"How did you get to Mexico?"

"Gus drove," Shawn said. "I don't know where he is. I don't think he's here but I don't know."

"All right," Juliet said. "Just calm down and give me an address. I'll get there as soon as I can."

"Jules, I don't know."

"Is there anyone there you could ask?"

"Not without being hit."

"Being hit?" Juliet asked. "Shawn, are you in physical danger?"

"Most defiantly," Shawn said. "or, at least, it feels like . . . Jules . . . I . . ."

"I'll find you Shawn," Juliet promised him. "Don't worry."

"I can't go . . . I mean, I'll be here. Please hurry."

"I'll be as fast as I can, Shawn. Don't worry."

"Thanks Jules," Shawn said. For the first time during their conversation, he didn't sound absolutely panicked. "I'll wait for you."

"That's right, just wait for me," Juliet said. "I'll be there soon."

Shawn hung up, and Juliet took a deep breath. She'd never heard him sound like that—helpless and terrified. She'd seen him stare down assassins and serial killers with calm bravado; she couldn't imagine what would make Shawn Spencer scared.

She checked her caller ID and wrote down the number, then she called the station.

"Santa Barbara Police," a desk officer said. Juliet didn't immediately recognize his voice, and she didn't bother to place it.

"This is Detective O'Hara. I need you to trace a number for me," she said before rattling it off.

"Ok," the desk officer replied. "That's coming up as the, ah . . . Tijuana Municipal Jail."

"Jail?" Juliet asked. Things were worse then she'd thought. "All right, thanks. Can you transfer me to Chief Vicks voicemail?" She was going to have to take some time off.

* * *

"_Hello_," Juliet said sweetly, though she did not feel sweet—she felt jittery and anxious. She'd left her house at 2:30 a.m. and driven 370 miles through the dark to arrive at the jail at the break of dawn. She'd had eight cups of coffee but nothing to eat. "_I'm here to see Shawn Spencer_."

"_Is he a prisoner_?" the officer at the desk asked.

"_I believe so, yes_," Juliet said. "_He called me from here last night_."

"_Visiting hours are from one to three. You can come back then._"

"Oh my god," Juliet muttered, rubbing her eyes. "_Can you at least confirm that he is here_?"

The officer looked at her computer. "_The last name again, please_?"

"_Spencer_," Juliet said "_S-P-E-N-C-E-R_."

"_Yes_," the officer said after a moment. "_He is here_."

"_I don't suppose you could tell why he was arrested_."

"_Umm_," she said, scanning her computer screen. "_It looks like he caused a public disturbance, resisted arrest, and was in possession of over 600 grams of prescription drugs, without a prescription_."

"_Prescription drugs_?" Juliet asked, baffled. "_Why _. . ."

"_That's what it says_," the officer told her. "_You can come back at one and ask him yourself_."

"_Um, how about Burton Guster? Was he brought in?_"

"_Spell the last name_."

"_G-U-S-T-E-R_."

She typed the name in. "_No, no one named Guster._"

"That's something," Juliet said, taking a deep breath. "_Thank you_."

Frustrated, Juliet returned to her car and thought. She couldn't believe how stupid she'd been. He'd sounded scared and she'd dropped everything, rushed to Mexico, only to discover that she couldn't even see him for seven hours. She should have done her research, her due diligence. She should have known what she was getting into. She was a better cop then this.

Still, she was not without leads. Shawn and Gus went everywhere together—and last night, Shawn had been very worried about his friend. Shawn believed that Gus was wandering around Tijuana and Gus might know what had happened. She tried his cell phone, only to be transferred to voice mail. Unfortunately, beyond that, she had no idea where to start. So, like any good cop, she started with the basics.

Shawn had mentioned not knowing the name of their hotel. If she could figure out which hotel they were staying at, that would at least be something. She decided to assume that Shawn had been cogent enough to know the difference between a motel and a hotel, and that he and Gus were staying at the latter. She also decided to assume that they'd stay at nice one; Gus didn't seem like the kind of guy who would tolerate a roach-y motel.

Juliet's first stop was the Tijuana Board of Tourism, where she picked up a list of five, four and three star hotels. Her next step was to call them, one after the other, and asked to be transferred to Mr. Spencer or Mr. Guster's room. One after the other, she was told that there was no one by that name staying at the hotel. Then, on her 14th call, she was actually transferred.

"Shawn, is that you?" Gus's voice said, as soon as he picked up the receiver. "Because I waited for you to get back all night and _The Curious Case of Benjamin Button _makes even less sense in Spanish."

"No, Gus, it's Juliet, Detective O'Hara," Juliet said quickly. "You don't know what happened to Shawn?"

"He brought me to Mexico, against my better judgment, then he ditched me," Gus said. "Why, do you need him for a case or something?"

"No," Juliet said. "He called me last night from jail."

"Jail?" Gus asked, his anger disappeared and his voice became concerned. "Mexican jail?"

"Yeah," Juliet said. "He called me at 2 a.m. I rushed down here only to find out visiting hours aren't until one. I was hopping you would know what happened."

"I don't understand," Gus said. "Why wouldn't he call me?"

"He said your phone was broken," Juliet told him.

"It's not broken," Gus said angrily. "He hid the battery because I was making work calls on the drive down."

"And he couldn't remember the name of the hotel," Juliet finished.

"He couldn't remember?" Gus asked. "_Shawn Spencer_ couldn't remember where we were staying."

"He knew you were in Mexico," Juliet supplied.

"But he didn't know the name of our hotel?" Gus said. "That's not like Shawn at all."

"He seemed pretty out of it," Juliet said. "He also told me he didn't know how many hats were in the room."

"He didn't even know that?" Gus said.

"I'm just saying, he didn't seem connected to reality. He might have been hit on the head—he was charged with resisting arrest. Or . . . ."

"Or?"

"He had some drugs on him. Maybe he . . ."

"Drugs?" Gus asked. "No way. Shawn doesn't do that."

"They were prescription," Juliet said. "Is there anyway he could have, somehow, gotten . . ."

"You think he stole them from me?"

"I don't know Gus," Juliet admitted. "All I know is that he sounded scared and he begged me to help him. But now I'm here and I can't even see him."

There was a pause as Gus considered her information. Finally, he said. "Do you know where the hotel is?"

"Yeah," Juliet said. "The Hilton, right?"

"We've got room 438," Gus informed her. "Why don't you come over? You can have Shawn's continental breakfast and we'll figure out our next steps."

"Sounds good," Juliet said.

* * *

Shawn had seen enough prison movies to know that his best chance of surviving was to make friends with the biggest, baddest, meanest prisoner possible. He also knew he could make friends with anyone he needed to—it was a life skill he'd developed to an art. But this plan had a major flaw—he'd always assumed he'd end up in an American jail. While many of the residents of this border town were bilingual, the lower dregs of society, the ones who found themselves in the high-security holding cells, tended to have very poor English. Shawn's Spanish was barely any better and people just looked at him funny when he spoke in Portuguese.

So instead of being the gregarious, helpful, and hilarious psychic, Shawn chose to be the quiet observer—the guy in the back of the cell who glared at everyone, and yelled nonsense in Portuguese if anyone came near him. People left him alone, which was all he needed for the time being. He had to think.

The previous night was hazy, which was upsetting. The HD, surround sound, smell-o-vision memory he was so dependant on had failed him for approximately an eight hour period. Things had started to go bad around 9 p.m.—when he was in the bar across the street from his hotel. He could remember feeling panicked, unexplainably and uncontrollably panicked. He remembered yelling at the man next to him at the bar—maybe even yelling threats. He remembered a big, burly cop coming in and arresting him. He remembered being handcuffed to a bench for hours while they dug up a translator. He remembered being processed, trying to explain himself, but totally unable to form coherent sentences. He'd known at the time that he was speaking nonsense, but he couldn't get his brain to work. He could remember calling Juliet, but he couldn't recall what she'd said to him. Then, finally, they'd thrown him into a cell with a bunch of drunks and, around 5 a.m., the haze lifted. He could think clearly, but the night had been lost to him. All he knew for sure was that he was in big trouble.

* * *

"So Monday, Shawn calls me and says we're going to Tijuana for a four-day weekend," Gus explained to Juliet as they sat in the hotel's beautiful outdoor dinning room and ate the complementary breakfast. "He said his mom was giving him a hotel suite for the weekend for his birthday."

"That's a nice gift," Juliet said as she dug into her omelet. She had not realized how desperately hungry she was until she'd approached the buffet and detected the fatty smell of bacon. "But wasn't Shawn's birthday last month? We went to the arcade, then back to your office to watch _Goonies_ and _Gremlins_."

"She's usually late, but she makes up for it with generosity," Gus said. "We drove down Wednesday night after my rounds and got here around eight. We had a late dinner, then I went back to the hotel to get dressed for clubbing. Shawn was supposed to meet me in the lobby by 10 p.m. but he never showed up."

"What was he doing while you got ready to go out?"

"I don't know, it's Shawn, he could have been doing anything. Buying sombreros, hitting on girls, stumbling upon a murder . . . it's Shawn."

"Yeah," Juliet agreed with a sigh. "He is unpredictable."

"As we were leaving the restaurant, he told me he had to take care of something, so I think he had a plan. I mean, I think there might be someone out there who knows what happened."

"Well, that's one thing we'll have to ask him when we see him this afternoon. How about the drugs?"

"I checked my case after you called. Nothing was missing."

"You said you left after your rounds—did Shawn . . ."

"I met him at his apartment," Gus said. "He didn't go near any doctor's offices or my office. Not that it matters, there is no way Shawn would steal drugs—he'd be hurt to know that you even asked."

"I understand that," Juliet said. "But if we want to help Shawn we have to eliminate the obvious and narrow scope of our investigation to something manageable. If he didn't get the drugs from you, he must have gotten them from somewhere."

"Makes sense."

"Did you check his luggage. Was there anything suspicious?"

"Shawn packs like a ten-year-old," Gus said. "He forgot a toothbrush, but did remember to bring a case of plastic soldiers, which he set up all around the hotel room to keep watch."

Juliet chuckled at the childish behavior.

"It's not funny," Gus said. "It's annoying. They keep falling on the ground. Do you know how painful it is to step on an army man?"

"I had three brothers, of course I know," Juliet said. "But the point is, could he have brought the drugs?"

"Let's step back," Gus suggested. "You do remember, we're not talking about just any suspect—this is Shawn. Shawn isn't into drugs."

"I'm not saying he's a junky or a pusher," Juliet said. "For all I know, he was trying to bring them back for some sweet, sick grandmother who can't afford her medication. But, if we knew where he got the drugs and why he was carrying them, we'd have a much better idea of why he was arrested."

"Do you even know what kind of drugs he had?" Gus asked.

"No," Juliet said with a yawn. "I'll try to get a copy of the police report when we visit him this afternoon. Until then we should . . . "

"We shouldn't do anything," Gus said. "You should go up to the room and take a nap. You can't detect anything when you're half asleep."

"I can last a little longer," Juliet insisted.

"We have five hours and no idea where to start," Gus said. "Once we do have a lead, you need to be ready to follow it."

"All right," Juliet said, with another yawn. "A short nap, then we'll hit the streets."

* * *

To be continued . . . .


	3. Thursday pm

"_Shawn Spencer_," an officer said, walking up to his cell door. "_You have visitors_."

"Visitante," Shawn parroted as the officer unlocked the door. "I hope that's visitors. Probably, because it's visitante in Portuguese. Is my visitor pretty? I hope it's someone pretty."

The officer didn't respond, which gave Shawn free reign to continue babbling as he was hand cuffed and led away from the holding cells. "You know, I have to say, when I was arrested I expected Mexican prisons to be a lot worse then this. I thought there would be rats, and cockroaches, and we'd be fed moldy bread and moldy water. But those tacos we had for lunch were actually quite good. I'm confident that the meat was some sort of small vermin, possibly that's how you control your rat problem. In any case, my complements to the chef."

"_This is it_," the officer said when they reached a metal door with a large window in it. The window was made of double plated glass with chicken wire between the plates. Inside, Shawn saw a gray metal table and gray metal chairs.

"Great, sounds great," Shawn said, as he was led into the room. "I don't suppose I'll get my hands free, I've got this itch on my back and I just can't reach it."

"_Stand still while we lock you down_," the officer said as he shoved Shawn down on one of the metal chairs.

"Hey, that was uncalled for," Shawn said as the officer put Shawn's ankles in leg irons attached to the floor. "You could have just asked for me to sit down! And are these really necessary? Are you afraid I'm going to kick my visitor? Or, if she's pretty, possibly play footsy?"

"_You have twenty minutes," _the officer said. _"Your conversation may be monitored."_

"Thank you," Shawn called after the officer once he left. "I like it much better in here."

Shawn scanned the room. It looked like a normal interrogation room. There were no windows, but there was a double-sided mirror on one wall. They would probably listen to whatever Shawn said to whomever came to visit him. He'd have to be very careful.

As he was waiting, he examined his reflection—and he didn't like what he saw. His hair was dirty and disheveled, laying flat on his head, except for an unruly cowlick over his right ear. There was red bruise just under his right eye that would quickly turn a nasty shade of purple and a dark red scab in the middle of his swollen lower lip. To complete the disgusting and disheveled appearance, he was still wearing last night's cloths. The once-white t-shirt was now a variety of colors in the yellow-brown-gray spectrum, covered in sweat stains, flecks of dried blood, and the grime from the holding cell. Part of him hoped his visitor was someone he didn't know – perhaps a court appointed attorney, or a cop for another round of interrogations – so that his friends wouldn't see him like this. But that was a very small part of him.

Eventually, the door opened and relief overwhelmed all his self-consciousness. "Gus! Jules!" he exclaimed. "It is so good to see you guys!"

"Shawn, are you all right?" Juliet asked as she slid into a metal chair across the table from Shawn. "You look awful."

"Yeah, well, they didn't exactly have hair gel in the prison lavatory, so I had to do what I could. I realize it's not up to my usual standards, but, under the circumstances, I think it turned out well."

"I think she's talking about the black eye and split lip," Gus said.

Shawn smiled, which irritated both of his aforementioned injuries. Still, he couldn't help it. His friends were there, and he felt better already. "I got in a little scuffle with the cops. A simple misunderstanding."

"More then a misunderstanding," Juliet said. "The report said you attacked them."

"Really?" Shawn asked. "Because I don't remember that."

"Juliet said you couldn't remember the name of our hotel, either," Gus said. "What the hell is going on, Shawn?"

"Look," Shawn said, deflecting the question. "I didn't feel like spending an hour watching you decide between the ice blue or shimmering violet shirt. I was at the bar; I had some drinks. Maybe I had a few too many, because things got hazy."

"After a few drinks things got hazy?" Gus said. "Saint Patrick's Day 1999, I personally saw you drink one beer after another for over twelve hours. And, at 10 p.m. that night, you could still remember the name of every girl we'd spoken to, and their phone numbers."

"Only the ones that were drunk enough to give us their phone numbers," Shawn said. "And that was ten years ago."

"I don't care. You do not forget important things."

"I forget to call my dad all the time."

"That's different," Gus insisted. "What were you drinking, Shawn? Absinthe?"

"That's right Gus," Shawn said. "I was drinking absinthe. The Green Fairy and I had a great night together."

"Don't get snippy," Juliet said, sounding snippy herself. "We're here to help you, Shawn. We're just trying to put together the facts."

"That's the problem," Shawn said. "I don't know the facts. I had a couple of beers and then . . . then my brain stopped working."

"It sounds like you were drugged," Gus said.

"And when I was booked they found, like, eight bottles of drugs in my pockets," Shawn said. "I have no idea where they came from, but . . ."

"But the criminal probably drugged you with the same stuff he planted on you," Gus finished. "This is probably a frame up job."

"Excellent deduction, Buddy," Shawn said warmly. "Now, all we need is a suspect. Who has motive and means?"

"Well, the drugs were prescription," Juliet said, looking at the police report. "Something called Adderall. I suppose any doctor or pharmacist could get that – not to mention anyone who has a prescription for Adderall."

"Adderall," Gus said. "That's an amphetamine. It's known to cause anxiety and agitation in adults. It can even cause confusion or hallucinations. And it comes in a quick-release formula."

"That fits your described behavior," Juliet said, opening up a folded print out which Shawn couldn't read but which he assumed was the police report. "The bartender said you were acting perfectly normal when you came into the bar and slowly got more and more agitated."

"The drugs were starting to affect you," Gus said. "That means you must have been drugged in the bar."

"Or at dinner," Shawn said. "That waitress could have slipped me a mickey."

"The waitress was eight-moths pregnant, Shawn."

"Doesn't mean she doesn't have needs."

"I think she needed a nap."

"Boys," Juliet said. "Let's stay focused. Shawn, did you know anyone at that bar?"

"Jules, we're in Mexico," Shawn said. "How could I possibly . . ."

"Answer the question, Shawn," Juliet insisted.

Shawn blinked, startled by Juliet's tone. "Are you interrogating me, Detective O'Hara?"

"One of my best friends called me in the middle of the night begging for help," Juliet told him. "Now he's being evasive and coy. So, yeah, I'm going to find out what happened, and I'm going to do whatever it takes to do so. If that means I turn on my bad-cop side, so be it. Because if we don't find out what really happened to you, Shawn, you'll do a nickel in a Mexican jail and I'd rather loose you as a friend then have you loose five years of your life."

"Wow," Shawn said, genuinely shocked. "I . . ."

"Did you know anyone in the bar?" Juliet insisted.

"I'd never seen any of them before in my life," Shawn answered honestly.

"Did you talk to anyone?" Juliet asked.

"Yeah," Shawn admitted. "It was a bar; I chatted."

"Who with?"

"I can't really say," Shawn answered.

"Shawn!" Juliet practically yelled. "I need you to think!"

"Look," Shawn said, keeping his voice as calm and light as possible. "I think I should come out and say that I can't help you with this one."

"What?" Gus asked, mystified.

"You keep asking me questions that I just can't answer," Shawn told them. "If I could answer them, I would."

"You don't seem to be trying very hard," Juliet said

"Really, is that what you think?" Shawn asked looking Juliet in the eyes. "Do you think I want to be in here?"

"I'm starting to wonder," Juliet said.

"Then leave me here," Shawn replied, holding her clear blue eyes with his sharp ones.

"Don't talk crazy, Shawn," Gus said. "Juliet just had a bad night—we all did. We just need the basic facts."

"Facts I can't give you, buddy," Shawn said. "I wish I could, I really, really wish I could. I wish I could tap into my psychic center and pull up a vision that would make everything crystal clear and oblivious, with all the evidence right there. But this time, I can't do that. This time someone else has to be the brilliant detective."

"Why can't you?" Juliet asked. "The person who drugged you must have been close to you before the drugs took affect. You must have seen, or heard something, anything, that would give us a lead."

"I want to help you, Jules," Shawn said, hoping she could see how much he meant it. "But I can't."

She stared back into his eyes and, apparently, believed him. "Ok, Shawn," she replied. "We'll figure it out without you."

"Thank you," Shawn said earnestly. "I'm so sorry I had to ask."

"That's fine," Gus said coolly. "This is just like _Star Wars_."

"Please tell me you meant _Return of the Jedi_," Shawn said. "Because if anyone's Carrie Fisher, it'd have to be Jules."

"Of course I meant _Return of the Jedi_," Gus spat back. "You're Harrison Ford and I'm Billy Dee Williams."

"Dude, why not be Mark Hamill?" Shawn asked. "He's a Jedi. That's so cool."

"Lando Calirssian owned a city, Shawn. He wasn't the mayor, he owned it. That's cool."

"But the Empire totally took it away," Shawn argued.

"And I'm sure he got it back after _he_ blew up the Emperor," Gus insisted.

"Jules, this is very important," Shawn said, turning to her. "Will you be Princess Leia? Because, if so, I think you and I should kiss right now."

"You anticipate being frozen in carbonite?" Juliet asked. Her voice was serious, but her eyes were smiling.

"I'm not sure we can take that chance," Shawn said.

"Well, we're going to have to," she said as her smile made its way down to her lips. "Furthermore, I don't mind being Princess Liea, but let me make it perfectly clear that neither of you will ever have the pleasure of seeing me in a metal bikini."

"That's perfectly reasonable," Shawn said. "After all, no one wants to see Gus in a fey little half cape. Even though I think we can all agree that I'd totally rock the smuggler's vest."

Gus rolled his eyes, Juliet snickered, and Shawn knew that his friends had forgiven him the information he could not pass on.

* * *

"That's weird," Gus said as he and Juliet were lead by a guard from the meeting room, through the jail's twisted halls, and back to the gray, unadorned lobby. "Even drugged, I find it hard to believe that Shawn would forget so much."

"He did seem cagey," Juliet said. "But then, perhaps the drugs aren't out of his system yet. Plus, I'm sure he didn't get any sleep last night. He'll probably have something for us when we go to see him tomorrow."

"It'd be nice if we could have this wrapped up by then," Gus said.

"Do you really expect to solve a case with no technical support or backup in one day?" Juliet asked.

"Well," Gus admitted. "Usually it takes a little longer then that, but this seemed pretty straightforward."

Juliet shook her head, amazed. "I wish I had psychic visions."

"If you knew more about it, you'd probably feel differently," Gus said.

"But even without visions, the police report must give us some leads."

"As it turns out, there is some interesting information. For example, the bar tender said Shawn spent most of his time talking to Alvaro Ruiz, who, as fate would have it, is a department psychologist for the Tijuana P.D."

"Really?" Gus asked. "That's great. He'll probably be able to pin down when Shawn's behavior became erratic."

"We can hope," Juliet agreed.

Dr. Ruiz's office was in an annex building about a block away from police headquarters. It was small, lined on one side with unorganized book shelves and dominated by an old hardwood desk filling up the right side of the room. A mismatched set of chairs faced the desk, and the back wall was filled with a huge window which looked out on a small courtyard with a poorly tended garden and an old bubbling fountain. The window was open, which let a cool breeze drift into the small, claustrophobic room.

"I'm so glad to see that Señor Spencer has someone to help him," Dr. Ruiz told them in very good, but accented English, as he motioned them to sit down. Juliet and Gus did so, settling in two worn wooden chairs, while Ruiz eased himself into an old leather chair on the other side of his desk.

He was a large man, broad shouldered and fit, for over 60, with clear brown eyes and thick silver hair. "I was greatly concerned when I saw his behavior last night. Naturally, I had to call the police as he began to pose a threat to himself and to others. Still, he was a charming, intelligent man. I wish him no ill will."

"What exactly did you talk about?" Juliet asked.

"It's actually quite funny," Dr. Ruiz said, chuckling. "Or, perhaps, ironic is the word. We spoke of his mother."

"Mrs. Spencer?" Gus asked. "Really?"

"Yes, as it turns out, I know her. Or did know her."

"That's amazing," Juliet said dryly. She was thinking, _that's incredibly suspicious._

"He told me that his mother had given him a weekend in Mexico as a birthday gift. I bought him a drink, to celebrate his birthday. I'd been there for a while, mind you, and was in a generous mood. Somehow, it came out that his mother was a psychologist working with law enforcement. Then I explained that I was in the same line. He described her and I realized that his mother had come to Tijuana some ten years ago to participate in cross-cultural training with the San Diego police. Of course, by the time the conversation got that far, the effects of whatever drug Mr. Spencer had taken were beginning to manifest themselves."

"Manifest how?"

"To be blunt, he accused me of having an affair with his mother," Ruiz said, clearly un-amused by the accusation.

There was silence as the weight of the accusation sunk in. Juliet glanced over to Gus. "Has Shawn ever . . . ."

"No," Gus said, shaking his head. "And he tells me everything."

"You think it might be true?" Dr. Ruiz asked. He seemed baffled that they were even considering it.

"You'll have to forgive us," Juliet said. "But as a member of the law enforcement community, you understand that we have to take his statement seriously. Did you have an affair with Dr. Spencer?"

"No," Dr. Ruiz said coldly. "She was a married woman and I am an upstanding member of the Church. I would never consider such a thing."

"Did he make any other wild accusations?" Gus asked.

"As a matter of fact, he did. He claimed that the man sitting on the other side of him was also cheating on his wife. He claimed the bartender was overcharging Americans and pocketing the difference. He claimed that the police officer patrolling outside was a junkie."

"That actually sounds like Shawn getting his psychic flashes," Gus said.

"Do we know that all those accusations are false?"

"I did not have an affair with his mother," Dr. Ruiz insisted. "And the patrolling officer, Jose Prize, is not a junkie. He was one of the most dedicated and persistent vice cops on these streets, until he was shot in the back three years ago. The powers that be tried to get him to quit, but Prize worked hard and made it back on the beat. There are few men I respect more."

"You had lots of friends in that bar last night," Juliet noted.

"My record is public, you may examine it. Prize's record is public, you may examine it as well. But do not forget that Shawn Spencer's record is also public. Of the three of us, do you really think he is the most trustworthy?"

"Yes," Gus said without hesitation.

"I think," Juliet said very carefully, "That something bad happened to Shawn last night. I'm just trying to figure out what."

"What happened is perfectly clear," Dr. Ruiz said. "He took a large dose of quick-acting Adderall and began having paranoid delusions. It's a simple bio-chemical reaction."

"How did you know he took Adderall?" Juliet asked.

"I don't know," Dr. Ruiz said. "But that was what they found in his pocket, was it not? And when taken incorrectly, its side-effects match his behavior perfectly."

"All right," Juliet said. "But, as I understand it, Adderall is not a party drug. Why would he take it?"

Dr. Ruiz smiled sadly. "Self medication, and accordingly, overdose, is dreadfully common. I could not guess why Mr. Spencer felt he needed medication for Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. But it seems he thought he did."

Juliet glanced at Gus, who was glaring at the doctor. It seemed pretty obvious to her why Shawn might want to treat ADHD in himself. He was always distracted and loosing focus at the worst time possible-- maybe he'd diagnosed himself, maybe he wanted it to stop. She doubted Shawn had any kind of insurance, especially insurance good enough to cover a psychiatrist and expensive prescription drugs. Maybe sneaking prescription drugs out of Mexico was the only way he thought he could feel normal.

"What?" Gus asked, incredulous. "Shawn's not like that at all. He may act erratic, but he's got a mind like a steel trap. He wouldn't mess it up with drugs."

"That's a common misconception," Dr. Ruiz said. "Psychiatric drugs do not mess up the mind, they fix it. People do not understand how painful and debilitating ADHD can be."

"Don't tell me about drugs, I sell them for a living. But Shawn doesn't need them."

"I'm not disagreeing with you," Dr. Ruiz said. "I honestly have no idea. But your friend appeared to think he needed it. It's the only explanation I can see."

"I'm not listening to this anymore," Gus said, pushing himself out of the chair and storming out of the room.

"I'm sorry about that," Juliet said. "It's just . . . it's hard, seeing someone you care about in so much trouble."

"I can imagine," Dr. Ruiz said.

"You seem to know a lot about Adderall and its effects," Juliet said, trying to sound casual. "Do you use it in your practice?"

Dr. Ruiz chuckled. "Am I your suspect, detective, really?"

"I never said that," she replied calmly.

"I am a psychologist, not a psychiatrist," he told her in a light, but matter-of-fact, tone. "I do not prescribe drugs, nor do I have access to them."

"Thank you," Juliet said, standing up. "I think that's all the information we need.

"If you'll allow me, detective," Dr. Ruiz said, politely standing when she did. "I would like to give you some advice."

"I'm very interested in what you have to say," Juliet said, leaning forward.

"In my opinion, Shawn Spencer is a victim of society. He is a smart young man who is trying to do his best in a complicated, expensive world. If your country had a decent healthcare system, this would not have happened. Go to the American Embassy, ask them to intervene on his behalf. The charges may be dropped, or at least lowered to a fine. I'm sure his family would come and support him – bail him out, if needs be."

"That is sound advice," Juliet said. "I'll pass it on."

* * *

"That's bullshit," Gus said as he and Juliet walked along the sunny streets through the bustling down town and towards their hotel. "Shawn was not self-medicating and he was not trying to smuggle drugs back to the U.S. so he could keep doing it."

"But it fits all the facts," Juliet insisted. "Including the fact that Shawn wouldn't tell us why he was there or what had happened. He's ashamed."

"Have you met Shawn?" Gus asked. "He's not ashamed of anything."

"Mental heath is a very sensitive subject," Juliet said. "Lots of people lie about it all the time."

"Shawn has issues, I know that better then anyone," Gus said. "But ADHD is not one of them."

"Gus . . . the way he acts sometimes . . . ."

"That's just it," Gus said, "_Sometimes_. Shawn's in full control. If he didn't want to play the fool, he wouldn't."

"Well, then, why play the fool?" Juliet asked.

"I've wondered that my entire life," Gus confessed. "But he's a ham. Always has been, always will be. That doesn't mean he needs medication."

"But didn't you hear the doctor, what Shawn really needs or doesn't need is immaterial. It's what Shawn thinks he needs."

"So you're going to stop looking?" Gus asked accusatorily. "Because one guy—who may or may not have had an affair with Shawn's mother—says Shawn probably drugged himself?"

"Of course not," Juliet said emphatically. "Dr. Ruiz warrants a closer look."

"Exactly," Gus said.

"And," she continued. "It's much too early to rule out the other people in the bar. If Shawn's psychic flashes were correct, they might want to discredit him. Or the bar itself may be the key. It could be a drop point for a ring of prescription drug smugglers."

"That's what I'm talking about," Gus said. "Let's go grill the bar flies."

* * *

A day in a Mexican prison did no more for Shawn's Spanish then 3 years worth of classes in high school or a week on a Spanish soap opera. While his vocabulary was not what he'd like it to be, fate had smiled on him and he was able to achieve his goal of making friends with the biggest man in the cell, a semi-professional heavy weight boxer named Gilberto Salazar. Sal, as Shawn had decided to call him, was hoping to make it big in the boxing world, and to that end had become moderately fluent in English. He'd been arrested for brawling—though Shawn suspected he'd actually been caught in the middle of an underground fight. For that crime, he'd been charged with mayhem, which Shawn thought was the best crime ever. He'd gladly spend a year in jail to have 'mayhem' on his record.

"Will I get out for my fight next week?" Sal asked anxiously. As it turned out, he was extremely superstitious and had believed in Shawn's supernatural powers with hardly any questioning. It probably didn't hurt that Sal had recently received several blows to the head and was not particularly sharp.

"You got a fight next week?" Shawn asked. "Really? Where?"

"Really big underground club in San Diego," Sal explained. "I could make two-thousand American, if I win. But five-hundred either way."

"Yeah," Shawn said, sucking his breath through is teeth. "The spirits don't think you'll make it."

"Man, I need the money," Sal said. "My girl's rent is due."

"You're paying for some girl's rent?" Shawn asked.

"My girlfriend," Sal boasted.

"Why don't you just share an apartment?" Shawn asked.

"Daria likes her space," Sal explained. "And she is hot, man, she's hot. I need to keep her happy."

"Daria, huh?" Shawn asked, raising his had to his forehead, as if he were receiving a vision. "I'm getting some very strong vibes. Tell me more."

"She's a dancer at a club downtown," Sal explained. "She comes to my fights when she can but she usually has to work."

"Any kids?" Shawn asked.

Sal laughed, "No, man, her mother takes care of her baby girl."

"Yeah, definitely getting a strong, strong feeling," Shawn said. "The spirits don't think she really loves you."

"What?" Sal said. "No man, Daria is solid."

"I'm sure you know your own business, Sal," Shawn said, holding his hands in front of him as if to demonstrate he was harmless. "But the spirits, the vibes . . . they say that if she really loved you, she'd move in with you. She may like you well enough, but . . . but I think mostly she likes your money."

"Ah, damnit, man, damnit!" Sal said, punching the wall. Shawn shuddered at the sudden violence from his new friend. "She said that guy was her brother."

"Oh, that guy," Shawn said. "Yeah, spirits are convinced he's not her brother."

Tears started flowing down Sal's face. "Man, man . . . She said I was her big daddy."

"It's all right," Shawn said allowing the huge man to cry on his shoulders. "Real men are not afraid to cry. Don't try to hold it in."

After a few cathartic minuets, Sal's sobbing was interrupted by a guard.

"_Shawn Spencer. You have a visitor_."

"That's me, buddy," Shawn said, carefully untangling himself from the prize fighter's embrace. "But don't be afraid of the pain. Just let it all out."

Once he was free, Shawn rushed to the bars and said, "Who is it? Who's the visitante?"

The officer stepped aside and relived Dr. Ruiz. Shawn's playful smile slipped.

"Hello Señor Spencer," Dr. Ruiz said. "After our encounter last night I wanted to make sure you were all right."

"Right as rain," Shawn said, trying to regain some of his cool. "I'm making friends. Influencing people."

"I can see that," Dr. Ruiz said. "I just thought I should tell you that I intend to testify at your bail hearing tomorrow."

"Really?" Shawn asked. "I hadn't realize I had a hearing tomorrow. Maybe I should call a lawyer. I don't suppose I could borrow your cell phone."

"Surely your family has made some arrangements for your defense," Dr. Ruiz said, surprised by Shawn's cavalier tone. "As I recall, you are the apple of your mother's eye."

"They don't know where I am," Shawn said coldly. "And don't talk about my mother."

"That seems foolish on your part," Dr. Ruiz said with a sigh, ignoring Shawn's request. "But it is your choice, of course, to tell them or not. What you really need to concern yourself with is what to tell the judge."

"Well, that might depend on what you'll tell the judge," Shawn said.

"I plan to explain that you are a victim of the system, Señor Spencer," Dr. Ruiz said. "You could not afford psychiatric counseling to deal with your ADHD and so you resorted to self medication. It's a sad story, yes, but not a criminal one."

"You'll tell the judge that?"

"Yes, I will."

"And I'll just get a slap on the wrist."

"That is the general idea," Dr. Ruiz said. "You may even get the kind of help you need."

Shawn laughed and shook his head. "And what if I say I was drugged? What if I say someone slipped those bottles into my jacket pockets?"

"It would go to trial, Señor ," Dr. Ruiz said very seriously. "Do you really think your friends could prove your innocence?"

"They're the best detectives in the world," Shawn said. "Except, of course, for me."

Dr. Ruiz laughed. "It is your choice," he said after a moment. "But they will follow the evidence. And we both know where that will lead."

Shawn glared at the doctor, who smiled back tepidly. "I will see you tomorrow, Shawn."

"Yeah," Shawn spat back. "Tomorrow."

* * *

To be continued . . . .


	4. Friday, pm

**Friday a.m.**

"Well, that was a big waste of time," Juliet said with a sigh as she sank down on the hotel's freshly made bed. For the past six hours, she and Gus had been sitting in the small bar across the street from the hotel, the bar where Shawn had gotten in so much trouble the night before. They'd watched everyone going in and coming out, all the time pretending, lamely, to be on a date. "Officer Prize wasn't on patrol, none of last nights customers returned tonight. Furthermore, there was no evidence that someone was using the bar a drop for a prescription drug smuggling ring."

"Not necessarily," Gus said. "The bar tender _was_ overcharging people. If Shawn was right about that, he was probably right about the other things too."

"But it doesn't prove anything," Juliet said. "At least not anything that can help us. Let's say that Shawn did have a legitimate psychic flash and saw Ruiz and his mother . . . saw that that they had been intimate. Shawn still had the drugs on him."

"It proves that Ruiz is a liar. If he lied about the affair, he probably lied about more," Gus said. "We'll have to stick to the guy until we uncover all his secrets."

"You're right," Juliet admitted. "And we'll have to call Dr. Spencer."

"Call Shawn's mom?" Gus said. "And do what, ask her if she had a hot Latin lover?"

"Well, not in so many words," Juliet said. "But the facts point to her. After all, she's the one that sent him here."

"Mrs. Spencer was never a great mom," Gus admitted. "When we were six, she rented _Halloween_ for us because Shawn asked. Mr. Spencer was working late, and she didn't want us running around the house while she was busy in her office. I didn't sleep for a week."

"That explains so much," Juliet said.

"But she's no Joan Crawford," Gus insisted.

"The point is," Juliet pressed, "that we won't know what her involvement was until we talk to her. It could be perfectly innocent, it could be that Shawn and Ruiz meet by coincidence . . . "

"Or Shawn's mom could have set him up?" Gus said. "Is that where we're going?"

"We don't know," Juliet said. "Ruiz lied, Shawn's being . . . unhelpful, and Dr. Spencer might know."

"Fine," Gus said. "But you'll talk to her. And you'll be the one to tell Shawn. I'm not getting in the middle of that mess."

"Mess?"

"Shawn and his mother have issues," Gus said. "He never talks about it—and I don't want to be the one to make him."

"Every kid has issues when their parents' divorce," Juliet said. "It's perfectly normal."

"Not every parent leaves in the middle of the night without telling her son. Not every parent refuses to visit. But despite being totally abandoned, Shawn still skipped town and ran after her as soon as he could—he didn't even stay to hear my graduation speech."

"I don't think you can blame his mother for that," Juliet said.

"He has issues," Gus asserted. "And I don't want to be involved."

"Fine, I'll make the call and I'll talk to Shawn about it," Juliet said. "And who knows, his hearing is tomorrow. Maybe there was a procedural issue and he'll get off."

"I suppose we can always hope," Gus said. "When is it?"

"Ten forty-five."

"Then we'd better get to sleep. Flip you for the bed?"

Juliet looked at Gus the same way she'd looked at her brothers when they'd tried to trump chivalry with equality. Juliet was a proud feminist, who had proven herself as able as any man, and more able then most, in a very difficult, masculine field—but she knew that women's lib had it's limits. It was late, she was tired, and there were older laws that ought to come into play.

"Oh, yeah, of course," Gus said, slightly embarrassed. "You take the bed. I'll just sleep out here on the couch."

* * *

The hearing started on time, which Juliet found amazing. Officer Prize testified that Shawn had acted erratic, threatening, and had turned violent when approached by the police. Dr. Ruiz had testified that Shawn was trying to self-medicate his undiagnosed ADHD and was really an object of pity, not a criminal. Then it was Shawn's turn to speak. The court had provided him with a translator, but something about the way Shawn spoke defied translation. His quick wit and word play, which was so effective in disarming Chief Vick, became awkward and boxy.

"Your Honor," Shawn said. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Shawn Spencer and I am the head Psychic for the Santa Barbara, California, Police Department. If you need to verify that, I see that the lovely Detective Juliet O'Hara is in the courtroom today. She will vouch for me. Why don't you wave at him, Jules?"

He turned and looked at her, with his fake-serious expression—the one he always wore after he said something idiotic but still expected everyone to take him seriously.

"_The defendant claims to be a psychic_," the translator said very dryly. "_He claims he is employed with the police in Santa Barbara California. There is a detective here who can speak on his behalf_."

"_Will the detective identify himself_?" The judge asked.

"_Yes, your honor_," Juliet said, before the translator could speak. She stood up and addressed the court calmly and professionally. "_I am Detective Juliet O'Hara from the Santa Barbara Police Department_."

"_Bailiff_," the judge said. "_Could you please take her badge number and verify this young woman's identity_?"

They waited while Juliet's identify was confirmed. Shawn fidgeted nervously, whistling White Snake songs and trying to balance a pencil on his index finger. Juliet had no idea why he was acting so childish, either he didn't know how serious his situation was, or he wanted to look mentally incompetent.

Eventually, her identity was confirmed and she was allowed to testify on Shawn's behalf. "_Shawn Spencer has worked as a consultant for the Santa Barbara police department for over two years_," She said. "_He has proven to be very trustworthy, and has uncovered key evidence in several high-profile cases_."

"_And, what do you think of Dr. Ruiz's hypothesis_?" the judge asked.

Juliet looked the judge in the eyes, but she could feel Shawn and Gus staring at her. "_I am not qualified to give opinion on that_."

"_Can you describe his behavior for us_?" The judge asked. "_His usual behavior_?"

Juliet's palms began to sweat. "_He jokes around a lot_."

"_While he is helping you investigate crimes_?"

"_Yes, sir_."

"_Would you classify that behavior as professional_?"

"_Not for a police officer, no_," Juliet admitted. "_But he's a professional psychic—so, as long as he gets results, it's not really my place to judge his behavior_."

"_And, he gets results_?" the judge asked.

"_Every time_," Juliet assured him.

"_Thank you for your testimony, detective_," the Judge said. "_You may sit down_."

Juliet lowered herself back into her seat and glanced at Gus.

"You had to tell him that Shawn was unprofessional?"

"Gus, I'm not going to lie," Juliet replied in a harsh whisper. "He does joke around."

"He needs our help."

"Nothing we do can help him, if he won't help himself," Juliet pointed out.

"_Mr. Spencer_," the judge continued seriously. "_Will you please explain your behavior on the night of your arrest_?"

After the translator gave Shawn the question in English, Shawn said, "Simple, your honor, I was fed an overdose of Addmercall, wait no . . . Eddermall . . . um, Attertall . . ."

"_The defendant claims to have overdosed on Adderall_," the translator said, not bothering to wait for Shawn to get the name right. "_But he claims he was fed the drugs_."

"That is, it was slipped in my beer when I wasn't looking and it made me go a little nuts. I did not take it knowingly or willingly," Shawn continued.

"_He claims it was put in his beer without his knowledge or consent_," the translator said.

"_And what of the drugs that were found on your person_?" The judge asked through the translator.

"They were put there—most likely by the same person who drugged me, but not necessarily. The question this court should be asking is not whether I'm hyperactive, but whether there is a prescription drug smuggling ring being run by the police department."

Juliet's jaw dropped. "He didn't tell us about that," she whispered to Gus.

"I have no idea what he's doing," Gus said. "This can't be good."

"_He claims that the same person or group who drugged him put the pills on his body_," the translator said. "_He claims that the court should not determine whether or not he has ADHD. He further contends that the police department is smuggling prescription drugs_."

"_That is a serious accusation, Mr. Spencer_," The judge said. "_Can you offer any collaborating evidence_?"

The translator repeated the question.

"No, Your Honor," Shawn said with a sigh. "I cannot. It's a . . . it's just a feeling I have—a very strong, psychic, feeling."

"_He has no evidence_," the translator said. "_He has divined this information psychically_."

"_More like witchcraft_," the judge muttered.

"Your Honor," Shawn said, his voice had just a hint of desperation in it. "You heard Detective O'Hara's testimony. But if you don't trust her, let me prove myself. If I can prove to you, right here, in front of everyone, that I am a psychic, will you at least investigate the case?"

"_He desires to prove he is a psychic_," the translator said.

"There's no way that's all I said," Shawn commented quietly, apparently to himself. "I said, like, five sentences. That was barely one."

"_The court will not allow this hokum_," the judge said. "_However, the defendant is, apparently, credible. His accusations are serious and his case cannot lightly be dismissed. The defendant may be released on 100,000 pesos bail until his accusation is investigated further_." The judge struck his desk with his gavel. "_Case dismissed. Next defendant_."

"_Your Honor_," Dr. Ruiz said, standing up and approaching the bench. "_Is 100,000 pesos enough? Isn't he a flight risk?_"

The judge looked at the doctor, annoyed. "_If your accusations are correct and Mr. Spencer very foolishly took the medication for himself, then he is barely a criminal. If his accusations are correct, then he is not a criminal at all. My ruling stands. Next defendant._"

The translator spoke to Shawn softly, presumably communicating the judge's ruling. When he was done, Shawn looked up and smiled at Juliet and Gus.

"Did you hear that guys?" he shouted at them as one of the bailiffs put him in handcuffs again. "I can totally help you with the case!"

"As soon as we bail you out," Gus said. "It's over $7,000, and all the banks are closed until Monday."

Shawn, apparently, didn't register Gus's comment. "I'll see you soon, Jules!" he called, as the bailiff pushed him through the courtroom doors and back towards the jail.

"Well," Juliet said, turning towards Gus. "I guess that went well."

"We got to find a bail bondsman," Gus said with a sigh. "And the fee is coming out of Shawn's pay."

* * *

"See you later," Shawn called after the officer once he was, once again, locked inside his holding cell.

"You look happy, man," Sal said, approaching Shawn from the back of the cell.

"Yeah," Shawn said. "My hearing went Okay, my friends will post my bail and I'll bring down a ring of corrupt cops by the end of the week."

"The cops are out to get you?" Sal asked.

"Not all of them," Shawn said. "Just a special few."

"I'm sorry, Shawn," Sal said, sounding truly regretful.

"It's no big," Shawn said, his good mood slipping as he saw how upset Sal was. "How are you doing, buddy?"

"I'm really sorry, Shawn," Sal said. "You were right about Daria. I talked to my trainer, he said it's true. He said everyone knows."

"Dude, I'm sorry," Shawn said, patting Sal's arm. The fighter's muscles were tense and his hands were in fists.

"I just want you to know, I'm glad you told me," Sal said. "So this, this isn't about that."

"It's cool," Shawn said, trying and failing not to tense up in preparation for the beating that would quickly come. "Just do me a favor and, ah, avoid the face."

"You like to be the pretty boy," Sal observed. "I won't touch it."

"Sweet," Shawn said. "Since we've got that out of the way, you might as well go."

"Go?" Sal asked.

"Unless you're waiting for something."

"You're a good guy, Shawn, the real deal. I wish I didn't have to do this."

"I know," Shawn said. "Just . . . please, get it over with."

"All right," Sal said. "Here I go."

Suddenly, the huge fighter grabbed Shawn by his shirt collar, lifted him off the ground, and slammed him into the bars. The first time it hurt like hell. The second time Shawn was sure he felt his skull crack. The third time, the world in front of him exploded into a wash of bright white light then everything faded into darkness.

* * *

Juliet read carefully through the bail bondsman's contract. His fee was 10% of the bail money, to be paid up-front. Gus was on the phone with his bank, trying to raise the withdraw limit on the Psych debit card.

"No, I cannot wait until Monday," Gus said. "If I could wait until Monday, I'd just go to the bank and make a withdrawal, this is an emergency. . . . . Yes, I would like to speak to your supervisor . . . ."

There was a very long pause.

"I can't believe it," Gus exclaimed, pulling his cell phone away from his ear. "They just hung up on me! I was on hold for twenty minutes, and they cut me off!"

"Oh," Juliet said, empathetically. "You know, if you needed a few hundred dollars, I could . . ."

"No," Gus said solidly. "It's not your responsibility."

"I know, but . . . ." she was interrupted by Gus's phone ringing. "Hey, maybe they're calling you back."

"No," Gus said. "It's Shawn's dad."

"Shawn asked me not to tell his father about this," Juliet said as Gus answered the phone.

"Hi, Mr. Spencer," Gus said tentatively.

Juliet watched as Gus's nervous expression quickly turned to one of deep concern.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Yes, I am here," Gus said, presumably to Henry. "But I didn't know."

"What's going on?" Juliet asked.

"Yeah, yeah," Gus said. "We won't. . . . Juliet, I mean, Detective O'Hara, is here too."

"Gus, what's going on?" Juliet asked anxiously.

Gus glanced over at her. "Shawn's in the hospital."

"Oh my God," Juliet said. "What happened?"

"I don't know," Gus told her quickly before returning his attention to the phone. "We can explain it all when you get here. Don't worry, we'll watch him."

Gus hung up and looked at Juliet. "They moved him to Blessed Virgin Hospital."

"That's only three blocks from here," Juliet said. "Lets go!"

"Yeah," Gus said soberly, slipping his cell phone back into his pocket. "I guess we don't need bail money, now."

"Did Henry know what happened?" Juliet asked.

"He was attacked by a fellow inmate," Gus explained. "By the time the guards got there, he was already unconscious. He hasn't woken up."

Suddenly, Juliet's fear and pity turned into a wave of anger. "All right, that's enough," she said, pulling out her cell phone and pressing 2 on her speed dial.

"Enough of what?" Gus asked. "You're not leaving, are you?"

"Of course I'm not leaving," Juliet said. "But I'm not going to try and solve this case the Psych way anymore. Shawn has flashes of inspiration—which is great for him, but I don't."

Juliet heard a click as someone answered her call. "This is Detective Carlton Lassiter, SBPD," her partner said in his normal, languid voice.

"Lassiter, it's me," Juliet told him. "O'Hara."

"O'Hara," Lassiter said. "Where are you? The chief said you were called away on a family emergency. I hope everything's all right."

"Not a family emergency," Juliet admitted. "A friend emergency."

"A friend . . ." Lassiter asked. "You'd take time off work to help a friend?"

"Of course I would," Juliet said. "And, actually, I need your help too."

"What do you mean?" Lassiter asked cautiously.

"I'm in Tijuana with Shawn and Gus."

"Spencer and Guster?" Lassiter said, disgusted. "You dropped everything to help them?"

"Shawn got muddled up in something—I'm not sure what exactly. He claims that there is some sort of prescription drug smuggling ring run by corrupt cops."

"Well, that sounds plausible," Lassiter said sarcastically.

"Shawn's said crazier things and they've turned out to be true," Juliet pointed out. "If that's really going on, some one in the Chula Vista P.D. must be working on the case—and they probably don't realize Shawn's arrest has anything to do with it."

"Wait, Spencer got arrested?" Lassiter said. "And I wasn't there to see it?"

"I know you have friends in Chula Vista. I need an introduction so I can collaborate with whomever is in charge of the prescription drug investigation."

"I have half a mind to go down there," Lassiter said. "It'd be worth the four hour drive just to see him behind bars."

"Well, it's too late for that," Juliet said.

"What, you bailed him out already?" Lassiter whined.

"No, he was assaulted in his holding cell. He's in the hospital."

"But he'll be back in jail soon, right?" Lassiter said eagerly. "A couple Advil, a bandage or too, and then . . ."

"He's unconscious," Juliet said. "I think he fell into something bad and I think people are trying to silence him. He could die."

"Fine," Lassiter sighed. "I know a few people I could call."

"Thank you, Carlton," Juliet said.

"Just to make it perfectly clear, I'm helping you, not him."

"Duly noted."

"Good," Lassiter said. "I'll give you a call when I have your meeting."

"Great."

"And be careful, O'Hara. Mexico can be a dangerous place."

"I can take care of myself," Juliet said, rolling her eyes.

"I know, I know," Lassiter said. "But . . . if Spencer found himself in a situation he couldn't talk himself out of . . ."

"I'll be very careful," Juliet assured him.

"You do that, O'Hara," Lassiter said gruffly. "I'll call you back within the hour."

* * *

To be continued . . . .


	5. Friday, am

**Friday p.m.**

Lassiter's connections were as good as gold. He got her a meeting with Captain Joseph Spitz, who heard her story and immediately introduced her to Agent Inez Swanson, the FBI liaison assigned to the prescription drug trafficking case.

According to Agent Swanson, for the past ten years, psychiatric prescription drugs had gone missing from Tijuana hospitals and shown up in police raids across the U.S. They were mostly pain-killers, though a few drugs high pseudoephedrine and some medical steroids were in the mix. These drugs were usually sold for recreation, though occasionally they surfaced in underground clinics. The FBI believed that a local doctor, or perhaps a group of doctors, was smuggling them north and selling them. It was extremely profitable, extremely illegal, and, for anyone taking the drugs, extremely dangerous.

The case had been sitting on the back burner for almost a decade until recently, when Mary Bunker, a co-ed at the University of Texas, San Antonio, and the granddaughter of Senator Ted Bunker, had died of an overdose of unprescribed Valium, which was traced back to City Hospital of Tijuana. Suddenly, time, money and resources were being given to this investigation with Agent Swanson overseeing the entire operation.

"A friend at the Tijuana courthouse actually contacted us already," Agent Swanson said as she and Juliet sat down in a conference room in the basement of the Chula Vista police department. One wall was completely covered with pictures of crime scenes and evidence and a map of North America filled with pins, presumably marking the communities where the dugs were discovered. The large table in the middle of the room was piled with copies of police reports from all around the U.S..

"Naturally, we cannot get involved in another sovereign nation's judicial process, but I assure you we will follow it with interest."

"With all due respect, Agent Swanson, in the past 48 hours my friend has been drugged, thrown into jail, and assaulted," Juliet said. "I can't just sit back and follow the judicial process with interest."

Agent Swanson offered Juliet a wry smile. "Do you want us to demand the Mexican government release him?"

"I know you can't do that," Juliet said. "But if you have any information that could help my friend, I would like you to bring it forward."

The agent took a deep breath and looked down at the file closest to her. "Unfortunately, the information we have does not help your friend."

"What are you talking about?" Juliet asked.

"Shawn Spencer," Agent Swanson said, opening her file. "He's Doctor Madeline Spencer's son, isn't he?"

"Yes," Juliet said. "She has something to do with this?"

"Because you are a police officer, I'm willing to share this information with you," Agent Swanson said, pushing the file towards Juliet.

"You're investigating Dr. Spencer?" Juliet said, flipping through the file.

"I received a tip as soon as I got here," Agent Swanson explained. "The evidence is inconclusive, largely circumstantial. However, I didn't get where I am by dismissing evidence. She remains a suspect until we know who the culprit is. But I must say, now that her son is involved, she becomes a much more interesting suspect."

Juliet stared at the file, shocked. "Shawn cannot be involved in this."

"Are you speaking as a detective or as a friend?" Agent Swanson asked.

"A friend," Juliet admitted. "But I know Shawn and . . ."

"I know you want to prove your friend innocent, Detective O'Hara," Agent Swanson said. "And, I'm sure you would like to exonerate his mother as well. But our resources are limited, and I cannot pursue this investigation."

"I'm not asking you to investigate this," Juliet said. "I just need access to some information. And, naturally, anything I find I'll give to you."

"Even if you find something that incriminates your friend?"

"If he's trafficking drugs, he's not the person I think he is," Juliet said.

"What if he's innocent, but his mother is involved?"

"Then she put him in danger," Juliet said coolly. "Protecting her would mean putting Shawn in further danger. I wouldn't protect her."

"Then Detective O'Hara," Agent Swanson said with a smile. "I think we can work together."

* * *

Henry Spencer sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair and watched his only son breathe. He'd done it before, of course. When Shawn had been a baby, Henry would spend hours just watching him. He'd been so innocent back then, so helpless. The grown man lying in the hospital bed was anything but innocent but for some reason Henry couldn't understand, his feeling of paternal love were a thousand times stronger then they had been for the little baby in the white bassinette. Perhaps it had something to do with the thick plastic tubes taped over his mouth helping him breathe, or the strings of IVs poked into the back of his right hand, or the heavy handcuffs on his left hand, locking him to the bed.

Of course, Henry was annoyed that Shawn had gone to Mexico without even bothering to tell him. He was mad as hell that his boy had been stupid enough to get mixed up with some sort of illegal drug market—even if the drugs were prescription. He was furious that Shawn had not seen fit to call him and ask for help. But mostly he wished, with all his heart, that he could have taken his son's place. He would have given anything, absolutely anything, to see Shawn healthy and smirking.

"Hey," Gus said softly as he entered the room, carrying two cups of steaming coffee. "How's it going?"

"Oh, I don't know," Henry said with a sigh. "The thing over there beeps every few minutes. I have no idea what that means. I tried to ask the nurse but she just told me not to worry about it."

"No signs of life, then?" Gus asked as he handed Henry one of the cups

"I can't believe you boys went down to Mexico again, after what happened the last two times."

"Yeah," Gus said. "It was pretty dumb. But at least we had a hotel this time."

"Fat lot of good that did you," Henry said. "Shawn didn't even last the night."

"But not because he was drunk," Gus pointed out. "And not because he got on the wrong side of some chiquita's boyfriend."

"Well, we don't know that, do we?" Henry said. "All we know for sure is what's in the police report and, if Detective O'Hara is right, we can't even count on that."

"I'm just saying, it's not like it was when we were eighteen or twenty-two."

"You have me there, Gus," Henry admitted. "It's nothing like those times. It's much, much worse. I didn't get a desperate call because you ran out of gas in Tecate, and I didn't hear about it from a fishing buddy who works with your father. This time I got a call from the Tijuana Police. Things certainly have changed."

"The doctor said Shawn should make a full recovery," Gus said, obviously trying to change the subject to something brighter.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Henry asked gruffly. "After getting arrested for a drug charge in Mexico, one of his cell mates decided to use him as a punching bag. But, because some doctor in a third-world country says, if we're lucky, my son might just turn out good as new after several months of recovery, then I shouldn't worry. I shouldn't care."

"I'm just saying, it could have been worse," Gus said.

"Now that's a comforting thought," Henry spat back.

Wisely, Gus did not offer any more optimistic comments. Instead they sat in silence and watched Shawn breath.

* * *

While interesting, the police files didn't, and couldn't, tell Juliet what had really happened to Shawn. She needed to talk to him—but he was still in an induced coma. So she settled for one degree of separation. A formal request, phone call and charming smile later, she had a meeting with Gliberto Salazar.

"_Hello, Gilberto_," she said sweetly as the 6 foot 4, 250 pound man checked her out. They were in a visiting room again, just like the room they'd seen Shawn in earlier. Salazar was handcuffed and he knew that guards were watching from the mirrored windows on the sides. Juliet was not worried he'd try anything. He was dumb, but not as dumb as that. "_My name is Detective O'Hara. I'm a friend of Shawn Spencer's_."

"_Is Shawn OK_?" Salazar asked, with what sounded like genuine concern.

Juliet blinked. "_No, he's in the hospital, thanks to you_."

"_I know he's in the hospital_," Salazar said. "_But will he get better? I didn't touch his face, just like he asked_."

"_He asked_?"

"_Yeah_," Salazar said. "_He's a psychic, you know. He knew I had to beat him. I hope he doesn't hold it against me_."

"_What do you mean you had to beat him_?"

"_Well, I got paid to. Paid a grand, American_."

"_Someone paid you a thousand dollars to beat up Shawn Spencer?_"

"_Yeah_," Salazar said. "_It had to be bad but I wasn't supposed to kill him_."

"_Those sound like very specific instructions_," Juliet said, speaking more to herself then to Salazar. "_Whoever paid you must have had a plan_."

"_I don't know anything about that; I just know the job_."

"_Do you at least know who gave you the job_?"

"_My trainer came in and told me about it. Once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, he said. I didn't want to hurt Shawn—Shawn's a great guy. And I know I'll be in prison for while, but I made more in this one job then I could make in three months_." The big fighter looked at her with sincere, remorseful eyes. Juliet got the impression that he wanted her to give him some sort of absolution for his crime. But Juliet had other issues to focus on.

"_So, someone contacted your trainer and made the deal_."

"_Yeah_," Salazar said. "_He said the guy caught him in the halls and made the offer. It was way too good to pass up—especially since we didn't know when I'd be out and able to fight again_."

"Y_our trainer was approached here, in the jail_?" she asked skeptically.

"_That's what he said_."

"_But he didn't tell you who actually hired him_?"

"_No_," Salazar said. "_And I asked, too. You know I didn't want to hurt Shawn but the money . . ._"

"_Yeah, I get that_," Juliet said sharply. "_You know, you could have turned them down. You could have stood up for your friend and not beaten him unconscious_."

"_But I didn't touch his face, just like he asked_," Salazar said, pleedingly. "_Who else would have done that_?"

"_So, your defense for beating your friend is that someone else would have beaten him worse_."

"_It's a fact_," Salazar insisted. "_If it weren't me, it of been someone else_."

Juliet hated to admit it but he had a point. Whoever wanted Shawn hurt would not have given up just because one jail bird didn't accept their offer. Even if she and Gus had been able to bail Shawn out before the assault, Juliet knew that they couldn't have protected him the way, apparently, he needed. There were any number of hoodlums on the streets of Tijuana who would have done much worse to Shawn for far less then $1,000.

"_Fine_," Juliet said, to end the conversation. Salazar smiled, as if her 'fine' really meant 'I forgive you.' "_But," _she insisted, not letting him get off quite so easily._ "I am going to need to talk to your trainer_."

* * *

"How's he doing?" Juliet asked softly as she crept into the hospital room. She hadn't seen him yet, and she was a little afraid to. Shawn was always full of life, quick to smile and bursting with energy. She didn't want to see him lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to a breathing machine, lifeless.

Gus and Henry were sitting in plastic chairs against the far wall. Henry was working on a book of crossword puzzles while Gus played a hand-held video game.

"Well enough, all things considered," Gus said, quickly turning off his game. "The doctors are planning to take the tubes out of his throat soon, then they'll let him wake up."

"How soon is soon?"

"That's a very good question," Henry groused, he was still staring at his puzzle, apparently waiting for inspiration. "The way this hospital is organized, there's no way of knowing."

"How's the investigation going?" Gus asked.

"Lassiter's connections really helped," Juliet told him, though she couldn't take her eyes off Shawn. He was pale and still. His eyes were closed and his hair was a mess. He only vaguely resembled the Shawn she knew. Seeing him like this made her stomach turn in knots but she couldn't look away. "Along with a wealth of background information on our smuggling ring, I was able to talk to the prisoner who did this."

"And what did he say?" Henry asked darkly.

"He said it was a hit," Juliet said, tearing her eyes away from Shawn and looking at his father. "He was paid a thousand dollars to make sure Shawn ended up in the hospital."

"So he was thrown in jail just so he do this to Shawn?" Gus asked, his voice rising with his temper.

"I don't think so," Juliet said. "I think a cop or at least someone associated with the jail, approached his trainer and hired him on the spot."

"That's ridiculous," Henry said. "That would be way too dangerous, suppose someone overheard their conversation."

"It's what Salazar said happened," Juliet told him with a shrug.

"Maybe the cop, or whoever, didn't like the way the trial went," Gus said. "That Dr. Ruiz guy did try to get the judge to place a higher bail."

"So then he uses a brawler, who's already in jail, to make sure Shawn doesn't get released and start solving the case," Juliet said. "It seems plausible."

"It seems incredibly far-fetched," Henry said. "Not to mention risky. Wouldn't it be far safer to just let Shawn go, lay low and wait for the charges to blow over."

"I don't think they can lay low anymore," Juliet said. "The FBI I took up this investigation after Mary Bunker died. They're probably closing in."

"Mary Bunker," Gus said. "Why does that name sound familiar."

"Senator's granddaughter," Juliet supplied. "From Texas. She overdosed on Valium she didn't have a prescription for and the drugs were traced back to a hospital in Tijuana."

"Do you think they planted the drugs on Shawn to frame him?" Gus asked. "Make it look like he's been part of the ring the whole time?"

"But it will be ridiculously easy to prove that he hasn't," Juliet pointed out.

"It sounds like you two need more information," Henry observed, less than helpfully.

"That's actually why I came back," Juliet said. "I think we need to talk to Salazar's trainer. He's the one who made the deal to beat up Shawn. He may be able to tell us who paid him. If we know who, then we'll be a lot closer to knowing why."

"Makes sense," Gus said.

"The thing is," Juliet continued nervously. "The trainer lives at his gym, and . . . . I don't think I'm the right person to go and talk to him."

"What to do you mean?" Gus asked. "You're a cop. Flash your badge and . . ."

"What you're forgetting, Gus," Henry interrupted. "Is that Detective O'Hara is a cop in Santa Barbara, not in Tijuana. She has no authority here."

"But Lassiter's connections—" Gus pointed out.

"May open a few doors with the Police," Juliet explained. "But I doubt a shady trainer who arranges for his fighters to beat people in jail is going to be very impressed."

"I still don't see why we'd have any better luck then you," Gus said.

"Because," Henry provided. "We're not pretty young women. If she walks into a place like that, the only statement she'll get will be about her figure—to put it politely."

"Exactly," Juliet said, slightly uncomfortable that Shawn's father had called her pretty and commented on her figure—even though he'd done her the favor of explaining her concerns. "But he might talk to one of you, mano-a-mano."

"A gym?" Gus asked. "I guess I could . . ."

"We're not talking about your local YMCA," Henry corrected. "This place will be a step up from a fight club. I'll go."

"It could be dangerous," Juliet said. "I think both of you should go."

"No," Henry insisted. "After twenty years on the force, I think I can handle a few punks. On the other hand, I don't want to risk the Gusters getting the same call I got. First thing in the morning, I'll head out and see what I can find."

"Thank you," Juliet said smiling at him gratefully before she pulled a piece of paper out of her purse. "All the information I have is on here," she explained as she handed over the paper. "The gym is called Gimnasio del Lobo, and the trainer's name is Osias Hernandez."

"Great," Henry said. "It'll be good to go out and do something more productive then getting coffee."

"Good," Juliet said. "Since that's taken care of, I'm going to try and find something to eat. Have you guys had anything?"

"Nothing that didn't come out of a vending machine," Gus said. "I could murder a taco right now. Do you think they'd let us bring them up here?"

"I don't see why not," Henry said. "Get me something too, will you. Something with steak, if at all possible."

"Of course, Mr. Spencer," Juliet said. "There's a restaurant across the street: I saw that they had take-out in the window."

"I'd better help," Gus offered. "All that food will be too much for one person to carry."

"I could probably manage," Juliet said.

"No, I insist. It's the gentlemanly thing to do."

"Well, okay," Juliet said, remembering that she'd forced him to be a gentleman the night before. "We'll be right back."

"So," Gus asked as they walked through the hospital's long artificially lit hallways towards the elevator. "How are you holding up?"

"All right, I guess," Juliet said. "I have to give you guys credit. It's a lot harder to do this without police support."

"It's not so bad," Gus said. "Between you and Lassiter, we usually have all the support we need."

"I guess," Juliet said. "And, I suppose Shawn's psychic intuition makes up for a lot of foot work. You guys can just sit in your office and things come to him."

"That's not really how it works," Gus said. They'd reached the elevator, and he pushed the down button. "Occasionally, a particular disturbed sprit might hunt him out—but usually he has to go looking for the ones with information."

Juliet laughed. "You make it sound like spirits are just the same as people. They have to be pumped for information."

Gus looked up at the ceiling and seemed to consider her assertion, "I guess it would always depend on which sprit you're asking. The spirits of dead people act exactly like people."

The elevator arrived and they got in. Juliet pushed the button for the ground floor, and the doors slid closed. "What about inanimate objects?" she asked. "Like that stuffed bunny that helped us take down the Red Balloon Nanny Agency?"

"I think that's more complicated," Gus said. "But to be honest, Shawn's the only one who could answer that question."

Juliet took a deep breath, "Then I guess that question will have to wait."

The elevator door opened and, to Juliet's surprise, someone familiar was standing on the other side.

"Señor Guster, Señorita O'Hara," Dr. Ruiz said, smiling at them. He was holding an obnoxious arrangement of Gerber daisies in neon colors. "What a pleasant coincidence. I just came to check on Shawn. So far from home, I knew he would not have many visitors."

"That's very thoughtful," Juliet said, trying not to react to the hideous flowers.

"But his dad wanted to spend some time alone with him," Gus said quickly, stepping out of the elevator and into Dr. Ruiz's way, so the doors closed before he could get on. "They're a close family. You understand."

"Yes," Dr. Ruiz said, with a sigh and a nod. "What an unfortunate series of events. If I had known this would happen, I would not have asked Officer Prize to arrest him. Such a stupid thing to die for."

"Um, Shawn didn't die," Gus said. "And he's not going to die, either."

"But he could have," Dr. Ruiz said. "That's what I was thinking. If the guards had not come in time, who knows what would have happened."

"It's not your fault," Juliet said quickly. "After all, you couldn't possibly have known that Salazar would attack him."

"That's very kind of you to say," Dr. Ruiz said. "But I cannot help but feel guilty. I would very much like to apologize to his family."

"Oh, that's a bad idea," Gus said. "Shawn's dad is in no mood for visitors."

"Yeah," Juliet chimed in. "He kicked us out. It's just very upsetting for him."

"I remember Dr. Spencer's stories about her husband," Dr. Ruiz said with an understanding nod. "That behavior doesn't surprise me at all. But, surely Dr. Spencer is here somewhere. Perhaps I could apologize to her."

"You mean Shawn's mom?" Gus asked.

"Yes," Ruiz affirmed. "Naturally, this is not the ideal situation to renew our acquaintance but . . . "

"She's not coming," Gus answered. "She has to present at a conference in Portland, then after that she's booked to do empathy training for the Salt Lake City P.D. She said, after that's done, she might fly down but Shawn will probably be out of the hospital by then."

"She will not come and see her own son in the hospital?" Dr. Ruiz asked, flabbergasted. "What kind of mother leaves her son to this?"

Juliet wasn't sure if Gus was covering for Shawn's mother, the way they'd both covered for Shawn's dad or if he was telling the truth. Either way, Juliet had heard nothing about Shawn's mother coming to see him at the hospital and she couldn't help but find that odd, even a little upsetting. Still, Dr. Ruiz's reaction seemed extremely overblown, almost as if his own mother had failed to come to his sick bed.

"Shawn's mom's always been hands-off," Gus explained with a cool shrug.

"She's just really busy," Juliet chimed in. "She can't very well break her contracts. I know she would come if she could."

"Yes, of course," Dr. Ruiz said with a sigh. "We all have our own responsibilities. Speaking of which, I have other people I must see. When Mr. Spencer wakes up, you'll give him these flowers with my apologies?"

"Of course," Juliet said, smiling graciously as she took arrangement. "Thank you so much for coming and for the flowers."

"You're welcome," Ruiz said as he turned around and walked towards the hospital entrance. Gus and Juliet watched him go for a moment.

"Ok, is it just me, or did that guy act really wired," Gus said, once the doctor was certainly out of earshot.

"I don't know," Juliet said. "I don't want to trust him, but I can't put my finger on why."

"Maybe because he's obsessed with Shawn's mom?" Gus said.

"His reaction was a little over-the-top," Juliet admitted. "But, I was surprised by her plans too. I mean, you'd think she'd want to be here. He is her only child."

"Mrs. Spencer's been off the radar for years," Gus said with a shrug. "Ever since High School. Sometimes she'd pop into town to see Shawn, or send him plane tickets to go and see her. But she was never predictable, and I don't think she ever came when Shawn asked her to. It was always about her schedule."

"That's terrible," Juliet said. "Still," she added with a sigh. "His mother is not our problem, Dr. Ruiz is."

"Dr. Ruiz who apparently came her just to ask about Shawn's family."

"That's a good point," Juliet admitted. "It begs the question, is this about Shawn or is it really about Dr. Spencer?"

"But . . . I don't see how it would all fit together," Gus said. "How could Mrs. Spencer possibly connect to prescription drug smuggling?"

Juliet didn't answer. She didn't want to state the FBI's suspicions and sully the name of a woman that meant so much to Shawn and Henry, unless she absolutely had to.

"You know, we never did call her," Gus pointed out. "Maybe she has some kind of explanation."

"No," Juliet said quickly. "We can't."

"Why not?" Gus asked. "It'd just be a few questions."

Juliet hesitated. "Gus, I'm going to tell you something that you absolutely cannot tell Shawn or Henry."

Gus looked at her skeptically. "All right."

"I cannot contact Dr. Spencer."

"That's fine, I'll make the call," Gus said. "I didn't want to do it last night, but things are serious now. I don't think we can let this line of investigation go."

"No," Juliet said. "For this investigation, we cannot contact Dr. Spencer, per the FBI."

"The FBI?" Gus asked, arching his eyebrows in surprise. "Really?"

"That was one of the conditions Agent Swanson gave me when she agreed to share information. They don't want to tip her off—change her behavior."

"Change her behavior . . ." Gus said slowly. "You're not saying the FBI thinks she would have anything to do with this."

"The FBI isn't sure," Juliet said. "So, until you and I can figure out what really happened, we're not supposed to alert any of the suspects that they are under investigation."

"Is Shawn under investigation?" Gus asked.

"Now, he is," Juliet said.

"I don't think I can lie to Shawn," Gus said. "He always knows when I'm lying."

"Then avoid the topic," Juliet said.

"I don't like this at all," Gus muttered.

"Me neither," Juliet told him. "But don't worry. I'm sure we'll prove that neither of them were involved."

Gus nodded, though he sill looked nervous. "I hope so."

* * *

To be continued . . . .


	6. Saturday, am

**Saturday a.m.**

The lady at the front desk of the hospital gave Henry very bad directions. He drove his pickup truck in circles around one of Tijuana's less desirable neighborhoods for almost twenty minutes before he decided he had to ask for directions. He drove for another five minutes before he noticed a pair of cops standing on a corner, eating tacos from a street vender.

"_Excuse me,"_ Henry called out in his rusty, horribly accented Spanish. _"I'm looking for Gimnasio del Lobo, can you tell me where that is?"_

"_I don't think you want to go there, sir,"_ the taller of the two officer's said. Without thinking, Henry noticed that he was in his mid-twenties, with a small scar on his chin, no wedding ring and a nametag reading M. Susa. "_It's not for tourists. If you're interested in fighting, I can point you to some better clubs."_

"_I'm iterested in Gilberto Salazar,"_ Henry said. _"Can you just tell me where the gm is?"_

"_Salazar was picked up yesterday, maybe the day before,"_ the second cop said. He was over forty, with a receding hairline and thick mustache. His hands shook, ever so slightly, as he lifted the taco to his mouth, and his name tag read J. Prize. _"You'll find him in jail."_

"_I don't want to talk to him; I want to talk to his trainer,"_ Henry said. "_Now, can you tell me where the gym is or not?"_

"_Down this street, two blocks,"_ Officer Susa said. _"It's in the yellow building on the right, second floor."_

Henry thanked the officers and quickly found the gym—which was marked only by a small sign in the ally next to the building, which pointed to a set of rickety wooden stairs that had once been painted red, but most of the paint had faded or chipped off long ago, exposing the gray wood beneath.

At the top of the stairs Henry found a dive fighters gym like a hundred other's he'd seen. There were old, patched heavy bags hanging along the walls and a standard ring roped out in the center of the huge, open room.

There were twelve men inside, all of them between 18 and 25. Two were fighting in the ring while two more were working the corners. Two pair were working the heavy bag, one guy was training on a speed bag, and the rest were doing calisthenics along the walls. Henry walked in and headed towards the nearest guy, a shadowboxing lightweight with a shaved head, broad shoulders, and a recently broken nose.

"_Hey,"_ Henry said gruffly. _"I'm looking for Osias Hernandez."_

The boxer looked at him and laughed. _"You should turn around, man."_

"_You should tell me where Hernandez is, man,"_ Henry parroted. _"Then I'll get out of your hair."_

"_Who do you think you are?"_ the young man asked. _"Coming into our gym and making demands?"_

"_Who I am is none of your business,"_ Henry said. _"Just tell me where to find Hernandez."_

"_Why should I?"_ the young man asked. _"You walk in, you give me no respect . . ."_

"_And why should I give you respect?"_ Henry asked. _"Because you're thirty years younger then I am? Because you can punch the air? Because you're standing there with your chest puffed out like some sort of rooster? Let me tell you something, boy, I was walking the beat long before you were born, and I've faced off against dozens of guys far more imposing then you. You don't impress me, and the more you try to the more pathetic you look. So, why don't you just do us both a favor and tell me where Hernandez is. That way I can talk to him, and you can go back to hitting nothing."_

"_Whatever man,"_ The young man said coolly. _"Whatever. I don't even know where he is."_

"_Do you know who does know where he is?"_

"_How would I know that?"_ the man asked.

"_Just help me out,"_ Henry said. _"It can't be that hard."_

"_Hey, old guy!"_ another, rougher voice said from an open doorway across the room. _"Stop bothering my fighters."_

"_Your fighters?"_ Henry asked, leaving the shadow-boxer and walking towards the man who'd yelled at him. The man was in his late forties or early fifties. His nose had been broken more then once when he was younger and his fingers didn't seem to line up with each other—he'd been a fighter in his youth. His voice was gravely and his teeth were yellow: he was a smoker. Finally, he was wearing a jean jacket with a wolf logo and the words Gimnasio del Lobo embroidered on the breast. He was certainly a trainer. "_Does that make you Osias Hernandez?"_

"_Who wants to know?"_ the man asked cagily.

"_Shawn Spencer's father,"_ Henry said as he reached the man.

"_I don't know a Shawn Spencer."_

"_Well, Gilberto Salazar does,"_ Henry said. _"You're his trainer, right?"_

"_Look, Gil's in jail, got caught brawlin',"_ the man said. _"I can't help you."_

"_You went and saw Salazar yesterday, didn't you?"_ Henry accused.

"_So what if I did,"_ the man, who was certainly Hernandez, said with a shrug.

"_And while you were there someone came up and offered you a deal. A thousand American dollars if your boy would just beat the crap out of mine."_

A light went on behind Hernandez's eyes but he didn't loose his cool. _"Look, Mr. Spencer, even if that happened, why would I tell you about it?"_

"_My only son is in the hospital breathing through a tube,"_ Henry said. _"Just give me the name."_

"_I'm sorry about your kid,"_ Hernandez said. He actually sounded empathetic. _"But look at it from my perspective. You live in America. As soon as your kid gets better, you'll be gone. That cop walks by my door every day—he can make my life hell."_

"_So you won't tell me his name?"_ Henry asked, nodding soberly.

"_I hope your kid's Okay,"_ Hernandez said. _"Gil has great control. I'm sure he was careful."_

"Go to hell," Henry responded, turning quickly and walking out of the gym. A few of the fighters called after him, insisting that he take the insult back but Hernandez told them to let him go.

For the next two hours, Henry drove around the neighborhood looking for cops. Besides Susa and Prize, he didn't see any. The list of suspects was narrowing down nicely.

* * *

Juliet was startled to hear her name. For three hours, there had been no sound in Shawn's hospital room but the soft beeping of his heart monitor—which she'd stopped hearing long ago. To occupy her mind, she'd bought a pile of Spanish romance novels. She was deeply engaged in a hot-and-heavy scene between the governor's daughter, Conscience, and the rugged outlaw, Marco, when a soft and raspy "Jules?" drew her back into reality.

"Shawn?" she asked excitedly, dropping her book and scooting her chair up to the hospital bed. He looked a lot better then he had only 12 hours ago. Late last night they'd taken out his breathing tube and put him on regular oxygen, so the only visible indications of his physical weakness were the IVs in the top of his hand and the thin, clear plastic tubes running the gas to his nostrils. The doctors had though he'd probably wake up around noon, so Henry had gone out to find Hernandez while Gus went to the hotel to catch some sleep. Juliet had promised to call them if there were any changes but that promised slipped her mind as she saw his eyes open and heard his voice. "Are you awake?"

"It's hard to tell," Shawn said. "You usually only smile at me like that in my dreams."

Juliet laughed, mostly out of relief. "A severe concussion, a morphine drip and you still have the presence of mind to flirt."

"It's not flirting, it's a fact," Shawn said. "Want another fact? My head is killing me—like the worst hang-over ever, times ten."

"I'll go get a nurse," Juliet said, pushing herself away from his bed.

"No," Shawn said quickly. He tried to reach out and grab her hand, and seemed surprised to realize that he was handcuffed to the bed. "Jules, what's going on?"

"Well, what do you remember?"

Shawn closed his eyes, apparently searched his memory. "It's all hazy," he said. "I was in jail."

"Yeah," Juliet said, slipping her hand into his, since he had not been able to take hers.

A smile found it's way to his lips as he opened his eyes, "You're Princess Leia. And, hey, this can be the scene in Cloud City right after Han was tortured. Do they kiss in that scene? I can't remember."

"You know," Juliet said coyly. "Maybe you should be Luke Skywalker. After all, being a psychic is kind of like being a Jedi."

"That's true," Shawn said in his overly-suave tone of voice, before continuing in normal tones, "But, come on Jules, if I was Luke then we'd be brother and sister. Don't be ridiculous."

Juliet snickered, and directed the conversation back to where she needed it to go. "Do you remember the hearing?"

"Yeah . . ." Shawn said slowly. "The judge said he'd look into the drug smuggling ring."

"Before Gus and I could bail you out, a man named Gilberto Salazar attacked you. Do you remember that at all?"

"No," Shawn said. "But the throbbing pain in the back of my skull collaborates your story."

"He slammed you against the cell bars," Juliet said. "But he avoided your face, per your request."

"Gee, that was nice," Shawn said. "Maybe I should send him a thank you card."

"There's some lovely stationary down in the gift shop," Juliet told him with playful sarcasm. "I could get you some."

"Hmm, tempting. And of course I'm going to have to send a thank you note to the considerate blind man who sent me that arrangement," he said, nodding towards the bouquet Dr. Ruiz had left. "It looks like the mess left over when someone disemboweled a rainbow."

"They are pretty atrocious," Juliet admitted.

"I think they may be radioactive," Shawn said. "Were they, by any chance, left by someone who wants me dead?"

"Well," Juliet said. "Since you mention it . . . they do happen to be from Dr. Ruiz."

"Dr. Ruiz?" Shawn asked. "Interesting. But I don't think he wants me dead. He just has no taste."

"Shawn," Juliet said, licking her lips nervously. "There are some serious questions we need to ask you about this whole situation."

"I don't suppose I could convince you to ask me history trivia instead," Shawn said quickly. "Is the answer Warren Harding?"

"You've been in this city for three days and you've managed to get arrested, attacked, and hospitalized. Even if we bail you out, you can't leave the city until the drug smuggling ring is exposed."

"And when you bail me out, I can help you expose it."

"If you live long enough to join the investigation."

"Live long enough?" Shawn said with a sharp laugh, though it must of hurt him, because he winced in pain. "Jules, what do you think is going on?"

"I would know what was going on if you told me," Juliet told him coolly.

"I can't," he said, shaking his head.

"Funny," Juliet said as the anger and frustration she'd been feeling for the past two days slipped into her voice. "That's the same thing you said when we visited you in prison—but the next day you were able to tell the judge all about drug smugglers."

"Not all about it," Shawn said defensively. "Really, just that they exist."

"You don't want us to solve this case," Juliet accused.

"That's not true," Shawn said. "Categorically, completely untrue."

"I can't believe you," Juliet said, shaking her head. "I want to, I really do. But I can't ignore the facts."

"Jules," Shawn said softly. "You always believe in me. That's . . . that's how we do things."

"Shawn," She replied, staring at him with a cold accusatory gaze. "Tell me what's really going on and I'll believe you."

He met her eyes and she could see an internal struggle. Eventually he said, "I have one question, one thing I have to know before I can tell you anything. Did my mom come?"

That was not the question Juliet was expecting. "No," she said in a slightly softer tone. "She's really busy. She said she couldn't get here for another two weeks."

"Good," Shawn said with a sigh. "We should have this wrapped up long before then."

"What the hell is going on, Shawn?" Juliet demanded.

"That is a hard question." Shawn said. "I, ah, am not sure where to start."

"Let me see if I can get you started," Juliet said, outlining a series of events that she thought probable. Not for the first time, she wished she had Shawn's psychic abilities—it would have been nice to know she was right. "You got a call from your mom. She needed you to do something for her, something here in Tijuana. Whatever it was, Dr. Ruiz is involved. You knew this thing was dangerous, or possibly illegal, so you didn't tell Gus."

"He's framing her," Shawn admitted. "But she doesn't know that. She thinks he's blackmailing her."

"You lied to us," Juliet accused.

"No," Shawn corrected. "I just didn't tell you everything."

"More like you didn't tell us anything," Juliet insisted. "And, you put us all in danger."

"So far, I'm the only one they've targeted."

"How does that make it better, Shawn?" Juliet demanded. "How does the fact that I had to watch you make a fool of yourself at your trial, or sit hear waiting to see if you'd ever wake up, make up for the fact that you brought us hear on false pretenses, and lied to us when we tried to help you? How is that Okay?"

"Jules, I'm sorry," Shawn said softly. "I didn't . . ."

"You didn't . . .?"

"Think," he admitted. "I panicked. I'm sorry."

From before she could remember, Juliet had been taught to forgive people if they are sorry. It was an essential skill in a house full of rough-and-tumble brothers who didn't know when they were hitting to hard and didn't understand why it was a big deal to spill chocolate milk all over a new white dress. So, as Shawn looked up at her, his eyes full of regret and remorse, she didn't have the willpower to not forgive him. She sighed and, in a softer tone of voice, said, "Just tell me what happened."

"I got a call from my mother on Tuesday night," Shawn explained quickly, still trying to win her favor. "She was upset. Ruiz had just called her and said he'd expose their affair if she didn't give him $500,000 dollars. She wasn't going to pay, so she called me and told me about it. Then she asked me to go down and tell Ruiz to his face never to contact her again."

"That's terrible," Juliet said as the last of her anger towards Shawn shifted its focus to his mother. Juliet had grown up watching her mother move mountains to protect her and her brothers and here Shawn's mother had sent him to another country to meet with criminals.

"She left dad. She left him a long time ago," Shawn explained, trying to justify his mother's affair, not realizing it was her current action that Juliet disapproved of. "He's moved on . . . sort of. I knew she moved on, too. Part of me knew, at least."

"Still . . ." Juliet said.

Her voice must have been empathetic enough to bolster Shawn's confidence, because he looked up at her and offered a sad smile. "She'd never asked me to do anything for her before. Never. I was, ah, actually kind of excited about it," he added ruefully. "I got to be the grown-up. I got to run in and prove to my mom that I could protect her. I got to be the hero."

"Until Ruiz slipped Adderall into your drink," Juliet supplied.

"I should have seen it," Shawn muttered angrily.

"What happened in the bar?" Juliet asked.

"Mom told him she would be there, so he was pissed when I showed. I explained that he wasn't getting any money and I tried to leave. But then he told me that he had all the evidence the police would need to convict my mom of prescription drug trafficking and if I didn't have a drink with him, he'd give it to the officer outside."

"Officer Prize?"

"That's the guy," Shawn nodded. "He's part of the ring, by the way. He pops OxyContin like Lindsey Lohan."

"Oh my God," Juliet said. "She does OxyContin?"

"According to _Us Weekly_," Shawn said.

"But how do you know that Prize does it, too?" Juliet asked.

"I could feel it," Shawn said. "If the judge had let me do my thing in court, I'd have been able to prove it. Now I'll have to wait for another opportunity."

"If you get one," Juliet said. "Why didn't you tell us all this when we visited you in jail?"

"Because," Shawn sighed. "My mother had asked me to do something, and I'd bungled it. I didn't want you to . . . "

"Get involved?"

"No," Shawn said. "I definitely wanted you to get involved. I just didn't want you to get involved without me. What if Ruiz had given you the information on Mom? What if you believed it?"

"Do you think I'm stupid, Shawn?" Juliet asked. "Do you think I would just trust a total stranger?"

"No offense, Jules, but you've fallen for frame-ups before," Shawn told her honestly. "I couldn't take that chance."

"So instead you went to jail and got the crap beat out of you."

"I'm a tough guy," Shawn said with hollow bravado. "I can take it."

"Oh yeah," Juliet scoffed. "You look really tough, lying in that hospital bed."

"And you look really beautiful," Shawn replied. "With the light coming in . . . shining off your hair . . . it's just . . ."

"Not now, Shawn," Juliet said, trying to sound harsh and authoritative, but she couldn't quite hide her pleasure at the complement.

"You're right," Shawn said with a deep breath. "After I get out of here, I can take you to this little cantina I know, with small intimate, candle lit tables and very strong margaritas."

"Sounds great," Juliet replied. "Just you . . . me . . . Gus . . . Henry. . ."

"Juliet, I think you're missing the point," Shawn said, before adding. "Wait, is my dad here?"

"Yeah," Juliet said. "He was out doing some investigating, but he should be back any minuet."

"Look," Shawn said, in a slightly lower voice. "Do me a solid. Don't tell my dad about the affair—or the frame up."

"So now you want me to lie for you?" Juliet asked, accusatorily.

"Look, I did the math . . . my mom and Ruiz were together before the divorce. Dad's still in love with her and I'm not sure . . ."

"All right," Juliet said. "But I don't like it."

"I knew I could trust you," Shawn said, smiling at her eagerly. "Now, I have a plan."

* * *

"So, we're just going to go in and ask him for the secret documents he's using to blackmail Mrs. Spencer," Gus asked as the walked through the halls of the police annex building towards Dr. Ruiz's office.

"Not in so many words," Juliet said.

"Even if we see his fake evidence, what will that tell us?"

"If we know what he has, we'll know how to disprove it," Juliet said.

"I thought Shawn told you he saw the evidence," Gus said. "Why couldn't he tell you all about it?"

"That's a lot of information to just remember," Juliet said dismissively.

"Sure, right," Gus said, though his voice sounded skeptical.

They reached Dr. Ruiz office and found the door open, and the psychologist sitting at his desk, reading case files. "Dr. Ruiz?" Juliet asked, knocking on the door. "May we come in?"

"Ah, Señor Guster, Señorita O'Hara, I didn't expect to see you again."

"We didn't really expect to see you either," Gus said. "But . . ."

"But we've been looking into what happened to Shawn," Juliet said. "And there are some questions we can't answer. We were hoping you can help."

"I'll do what I can, naturally," Dr. Ruiz said, leaning back in his chair. "Please, sit down."

"Thank you," Juliet said politely as she took the far seat, setting her purse down on the floor next to her. She leaned forward and stared Dr. Ruiz in the eyes. "This may seem impertinent but how well did you know Madeline Spencer?"

"Not well," Dr. Ruiz said. "We spoke a few times."

"That's so strange," Juliet said. "Because she reports that you knew each other intimately."

Dr. Ruiz stiffened. "Did she offer any evidence of such a relationship?"

"No," Juliet admitted. "Which is why I wanted to get your side of the story."

Dr. Ruiz stared at her for a moment before clearing his throat and turning to look out the window. "The truth is the last time I saw her, I . . . well, to be perfectly frank, I found a large bag full of prescription drugs, mostly Vicodin, in her briefcase. I confronted her with it, and she told me it was none of my business.

"As a psychologist, I'm used to treating people with substance abuse problems. I could see that she herself was not addicted to the painkiller, so I became suspicious. When the FBI came around last month and asked about this drug smuggling ring . . . well, I started looking a little closer."

"You think she is involved?" Juliet asked.

"I'm afraid so," Dr. Ruiz said. "When I chanced upon her son and saw that he was carrying a large amount of unprescribed drugs—it just confirmed it."

"But you testified that Shawn was self-medicating," Gus said. "Shawn was the one who brought up the smuggling ring."

"I told you before, I liked Shawn. I didn't want to see him in trouble—and all the evidence at the scene did point to self-medication. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Why he would want to expose his mother is beyond me."

"You're sure it's Mrs. Spencer?" Gus asked.

"To say I am sure is a very strong statement. I would say it seems plausible."

"What evidence do you have?" Juliet asked.

"Well," Dr. Ruiz said, hesitantly. "I suppose there is no harm in showing you." He opened the right bottom draw in his large desk and pulled out a manila folder. "This documents Dr. Spencer's suspicious behavior."

Juliet took the folder and started looking through the contents while Gus asked, "But, if you can prove that Mrs. Spencer is the drug trafficker, why would she lie and say you two had a relationship?"

"Perhaps to discredit me," Dr. Ruiz said. "What do you call that in English, a red herring—where a lie is told to shift suspicion from the guilty party?"

"This evidence is very interesting," Juliet said, closing the folder and turning her gaze on Dr. Ruiz. "But it's not enough to extradite anyone."

"I'm glad you think it's interesting," Dr. Ruiz said. "I sent it to the FBI – but they clearly have not followed up on it."

"So, the only way you could prosecute her on these charges is if she was arrested in Mexico," Gus said.

"That's the sad truth of it," Dr. Ruiz said. "The complexities of international justice can be very frustrating. But we all must work within the system we are given, mustn't we?"

"That is true," Juliet responded, closing the file folder, placing it on his desk and standing. Gus followed Juliet's lead. "Thank you so much for sharing this information. It's not what I wanted to see but it has been very helpful. Can I contact you in the future if we need anything more?"

"Of course, Señorita," Dr. Ruiz said. "You know where I am."

Both Juliet and Gus shook Dr. Ruiz's hands and left his office. The walked to the end of the hall, discussing their interview in hushed tones.

"He's lying out of his ass," Gus said. "Was his evidence any good?"

"Totally circumstantial," Juliet said. "It connected Dr. Spencer to Tijuana and then to some of the communities where the drugs were found. The FBI has had that evidence, looked into it and found nothing."

"Because there's nothing to find," Gus said.

"But what I can't understand is why Dr. Ruiz keeps showing it to people," Juliet said. "Even if Dr. Spencer came to Mexico and they arrested her, I don't think that the charges could stick . . . unless more evidence surfaces."

"But you just said there was no more evidence," Gus pointed out. "What could anyone possibly find?"

"I don't know," Juliet said excitedly. "Maybe a briefcase full of Vicodin or pockets full of Adderall."

"So, you're saying Shawn was arrested and beaten in an attempt to bring Dr. Spencer here, to Tijuana . . ." Gus started.

"Where Dr. Ruiz or Officer Prize could plant some drugs . . ." Juliet supplied.

" . . . and the evidence is no longer circumstantial," Gus finished. "It's downright nefarious."

"Yes it is," Juliet agreed. "But we have to prove it. You think it's been long enough?"

"Probably," Gus said. "Do you want me to come with?"

"It'll be less suspicious if you don't," Juliet said. "I'll be right back."

She jogged back towards the office. Not surprisingly, she found the door closed. Her heart was racing as she placed her head against the door and strained to hear Dr. Ruiz's half of the phone conversation. _ "No, he's a psychic and can prove it. . . . . His friends came and spoke with me. They are investigating. . . . She spoke at the trial, the detective. . . . No, it won't work. We have to finish it. . . . Get his signature. That will be all it takes. . . . You have the vial? . . . . Fine . . . I didn't want it to come to this either, but it is them or us. . . . Call me when it's done."_

The conversation seemed to be over, and Juliet dared to knock on the door.

"_Who is it?"_ Dr. Ruiz barked.

"Detective O'Hara," Juliet called through the closed door. "I'm so sorry but I think I must have left my purse in your office."

"Oh, come in, please," Dr. Ruiz said. She opened the door and found him sorting nonchalantly through paperwork, as if he had not just gotten off a phone call. He pushed his chair away from the desk, as if he were going to stand politely at the entrance of a lady but Juliet didn't let him. "Don't bother," she said, walking quickly across the room. "It's right here. I'm sorry to have bothered you again."

"It is always a pleasure to see you Detective," Dr. Ruiz said smoothly.

"Feel free to return any time."

"Thank you," Juliet said as she pulled Dr. Ruiz's door closed. "Have a nice day."

"Did you get it?" Gus asked as Juliet hurried towards him.

She nodded eagerly, garbed his arm, and started pulling him down the stairs. "What is it, girl?" Gus demanded.

"Unless I'm wrong, and I could be, but I'm pretty sure that just heard Dr. Ruiz order a hit."

"Really?"

"He knows we're on to him," Juliet said. "I think he's going to try and kill Shawn."

"But I don't understand. Wouldn't killing Shawn make it obvious that he's the bad guy?"

"Apparently, he doesn't think so," Juliet said, pulling out her cell phone and quickly calling the FBI.

* * *

To be continued . . . .


	7. Saturday, pm

**Saturday p.m.**

"I know the rest of the world loves this game, but I just don't get it," Henry said as he and Shawn watched a soccer match on the twenty-year-old TV that hung precariously on a stand attached to the far wall of Shawn's hospital room.

"You kick a ball into a goal," Shawn said. "It's not that hard to understand."

"Yeah, but it lacks the strategy of football, the speed of hockey, the poetry of baseball."

"The thrill of Nascar, the elegance of MMA."

"Go ahead, make you're snide comments . . ." Henry started.

"Thanks dad, I think I will," Shawn said quickly.

"I'm just saying, real sports can't be played by 5-year-olds who are taken to practice by their mother's in mini-vans."

"Or, apparently, poor village children who only have one ball," Shawn said.

"I don't understand why you're defending soccer. Your mother signed you up for it when you were a kid and all you did was complain about how boring it was."

"I was seven," Shawn said. "I didn't understand the beauty of the world's pastime."

"Oh, and now you do?" Henry scoffed.

"Not really," Shawn admitted. "But now it pisses you off, so it's more fun then ever."

"Har har har," Henry said as Shawn chuckled. "Get a rise out of your old man. Always good for a laugh."

"Usually," Shawn said. "And I heard laughter is the best medicine, so . . ."

"You know, I don't need this, Shawn," Henry said. "I came all the way from Santa Barbara to be here for you when you needed me, even though it was your own stupidity that got you there."

"My own stupidity," Shawn nodded. "Naturally."

"What, did that cross a line?" Henry asked. "You can piss me off, but I can't piss you off."

"I defended a sport beloved by millions the world over. You insulted my intelligence."

"You think I'm happy that my only son is an idiot?" Henry asked.

"In the matter of seconds I went from stupid to an idiot. Eventually, I'll have to hit bottom and then I'll only be able to go up."

"Well, what do you expect? You let a stranger buy you a drink and slip you a mickey. That's pretty stupid."

"You're right. I failed freshman co-ed 101."

"This is serious Shawn."

"Look, Dad, I'm the one who was put in jail, then in the hospital," Shawn said, loosing some of his playful glibness. "I don't think I need your lectures to tell me I made a mistake."

"Really, because if I don't tell you, who will?"

"Apparently, the criminal justice system in Mexico."

"Well, it was bound to happen, eventually," Henry said. "I knew you'd end up in jail."

"Yeah, when you arrested me it was only a matter of time."

"You can't blame me for that," Henry said. "You stole the car."

"I borrowed the car and you didn't cut me a break."

"I don't cut anyone a break, kid."

"I've noticed that about you. It's not your best characteristic."

"I bet you wish I was a big softy, like your mother."

"Yeah," Shawn said sarcastically. "That's what I needed. Two parents like mom."

"Figures," Henry said, though he could have said much more. After all, he'd come all the way to Mexico to sit by Shawn's sick bed, and Madeline hadn't even called. "As fun as this conversation's been, I've got to pee."

Without another word, Henry pushed himself out of the chair and briskly walked out of the room. Shawn sighed and watched him go. He wondered if he should have acted a little more grateful, perhaps not brought up the most bitter moment of their relationship, when he destroyed his father's dreams for him and Henry had destroyed Shawn's hope that his father cared more about him then about his job.

As Shawn waited for his father to return, he wondered if he ought to apologize—but he wasn't sure for what. For defending soccer, for being the victim of a frame up, for pointing out that his first night in jail was as much his father's fault as his own. Shawn couldn't bring himself to apologize for any of that. He started to think of other ways he could possibly offer an olive branch to his father when he heard someone come into the room. Shawn turned to look at his visitor and immediately knew that he was in trouble.

"Officer Prize," Shawn said, forcing a friendly smile, even as the policeman ominously closed the door to Shawn's room behind him. "I didn't expect you to come visit me."

"_I need you to sign something,"_ Officer Prize said, pulling a slip of paper and a pen from the pocket of his standard issue, navy-blue pants.

"I have no idea what you just said," Shawn lied. "I'm going to pretend it was 'I'm so sorry to have planted evidence on you, Mr. Spencer, please forgive me.' In which case, you are totally forgiven and can go on your merry way."

"Write your name," the officer said forcefully in english, throwing the piece of paper and the pen on Shawn's lap

"Do you want my autograph?" Shawn asked, picking up the pen and paper. "Should I make it out to José, or do you want it for someone else?"

Prize pulled a small gun out of his pocket and pointed it at Shawn. "Write your name!"

"What is this, a suicide note?" Shawn asked slowly. "Will you kill me if I don't sign the suicide note?"

"Yes, I kill," Officer Prize said in his weak English. "Write your name!"

"See, that's just idiotic," Shawn argued. "Because, if I sign the suicide note, you'll still kill me. And, really, I'd rather die knowing that you'll go to jail for a looooooong time."

"Write you're name!" Prize insisted, pressing the gun against Shawn's temple.

"Though, you do make a compelling argument," Shawn said, glancing at the door behind Prize. He knew that his father would come back eventually, and Jules and Gus were due back soon, and it'd been a while since he'd seen one of the nurses who were supposed to check on him every half an hour. If he could stall long enough, someone was bound to come in and rescue him. "But, if you don't mind, I don't like to sign anything before I read it." Shawn unfolded the paper slowly and reread it several times.

The letter he was supposed to sign was neatly typewritten. Like most real suicide notes, it didn't wax poetic about the pain of life or sweet release of death. It was very practical and very informative. Shawn deducted Ruiz must have written it—as a psychologist he would know what the investigators would buy and what would scream 'fake'. It read:

Dear Mom,

I made some big mistakes here in Mexico. They caught me with a stash, and I was still high during the hearing, so I think I said some stupid things. I don't think I'm going to get out of this, but I couldn't stand jail. This isn't your fault or Dad's, so don't blame yourselves.

I did manage to get one last shipment to you—it'll probably arrive before this letter, but not before the bad news. Think of it as my parting gift.

Take care of yourself, Mom.

Love

"Nice note," Shawn said. "But, ah, I'm not going to sign it so you can have it back." He folded the note, clipped the pen onto the paper, and held the note up for Officer Prize to reclaim.

"I'll shoot!" Prize said between clenched teeth.

"I doubt it," Shawn replied coolly. "Because if you shoot me, people will here and come running, only to find you with a gun and me with bullet in my brain. But, perhaps more importantly, if I'm dead I can never sign that letter, and you and Ruiz will never be able to frame my mother for your little drug ring, and you'll both go to jail and never get out."

"_I didn't want to do this,"_ Prize muttered, putting his gun in his pocket. _"I wanted it to be quick."_

"I'm glad to see you're listening to reason," Shawn said slowly. Prize had given up much too easily. "Why don't you just leave and we can pretend this whole thing never happened."

Shawn watched nervously as Prize pulled his hand out of his pants pocket and reached into the breast pocket of his standard issue blue button-up t-shirt. He pulled out a small cylindrical item, which Shawn had noticed, and assumed was a pen. But it wasn't; it was a syringe filled with a clear liquid.

"What the hell is that?" Shawn asked, feeling really frightened for the first time.

Prize didn't answer; instead, he turned towards Shawn's IV bag.

"Wait, wait, wait," Shawn said, but he didn't get to say much more. Prize clapped his left hand over Shawn's mouth, effectively stopping any cries for help. His fear became panic as Prize injected the liquid into his IV, where it mixed, invisibly, with the water.

Shawn's first instinct was to pull the IV's out of the back of his hand, but his left hand was still cuffed to the bed. He started moving his right hand towards his left, when Prize's right hand grabbed his wrist hand held it down.

"It don't hurt," Prize said softly, as if he were trying to be comforting.

Shawn looked at him accusingly and thought _there's no way you know that_. He struggled with all his might to free his hand, but he had no leverage, and Prize seemed to be putting all his body weight on Shawn's wrist. All Shawn could do was watch the fluid slip down the tube and into his body.

* * *

"Excuse me," Juliet said to the first young woman in scrubs who happened to pass Shawn's room. "Why is the door closed?"

"I don't know," the nurse said, not even bothering to pause and look at the door. "Perhaps the patient is sleeping."

"In that case, I don't want to wake him," Juliet said to Gus as she let the nurse hurry away.

"I don't think opening the door will wake him," Gus said. "And even if it did, maybe we should. You do think his life is in danger, after all."

"His dad should be in there," Juliet pointed out. "He wouldn't let anything happen to Shawn."

"Except," Gus said. "Henry just walked around the corner."

Juliet turned and saw Shawn's father walk up from the direction of the public bathrooms. "Why is the door closed?" she asked anxiously.

"I don't know," Henry said, looking at her curiously. "I left it open."

Juliet rushed to the door and threw it open to see a man standing over Shawn, using one hand to keep Shawn from screaming and the other to pin Shawn to the bed.

"Get away from him!" Juliet yelled, rushing into the door. Henry pushed past her, garbed the man's shoulders and pulled him off his son, who started yelling as soon as his mouth was uncovered. "Gus, get a doctor!" he yelled as he reached his right hand to his left, grabbed the IVs, yanked them out of top of his hand, and screamed in pain.

"Shawn what are you doing?" Juliet asked. "You need those."

"There's something in there," Shawn said breathlessly. "He put something, something bad, in the bag."

"What did you give my son?" Henry demanded, as he pressed Shawn's assailant forcefully against the wall.

"You are assaulting a police officer," the man, who Juliet recognized as Officer Prize, said. "You will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law."

"No, he won't, no," Shawn said. "Because you are a drug runner and a prisoner, and . . ah, a addict, and just . . . not a nice guy."

"Shawn, are you ok?" Juliet asked.

Shawn shook his head. "Did Gus get a doctor?"

"He's looking for one," Juliet said. "And I'm calling the police."

As Juliet reported the crime, and begged for an officer to come as soon as possible, she kept her eyes on Shawn. Whatever had been put in his IV seemed to be having an effect on him. He was becoming pale and he kept blinking, as if he suddenly didn't trust what he saw. "How are you feeling, Shawn?" Juliet asked once she'd been assured that a police officer would be there momentarily.

"Really sick," Shawn admitted. "And do you know what color the wall is?"

Juliet glanced where Shawn was staring. "It's off-white," she answered.

"Like, how off?" Shawn asked. "Because it looks really yellow and . . . I don't know if that's because of the afternoon light or . . ."

"There's something wrong with your eyes," Juliet concluded. "That must be a symptom of whatever drug he gave you."

"I don't think it's the only symptom," Shawn said. "I can feel my heart—"

Before he was able to explain his heart to Juliet, a man in a lab coat rushed into the room with Gus quickly on his heels and a middle-aged woman in scrubs and a bright pink nurse's jacket following him.

"_What is going on here?"_ the doctor demanded. _"Was this patient injected with something?"_

"_Yes,"_ Juliet answered. _"That man,"_ she said, pointing to Prize, who Henry had managed to handcuff to a chair, _"put something into his IV—we have reason to believe he was trying to kill him. His eyes have been affected, and his heart. But the perpetrator won't tell us which drug he used."_

"_It's affecting your heart?"_ The doctor asked as he put on his stethoscope.

"Can you translate?" Shawn asked. "I have no idea what he's saying."

"He wants to know what's going on with your heart." Juliet said quickly.

"It's slowing," Shawn said. "I'm terrified, my heart should be racing, but I swear I can feel it slowing down."

"Oh God," Juliet said softly, before turning to the doctor. _"He says he can feel his heart beat slowing."_

"Hmmm," the doctor said, pressing his stethoscope against Shawn's chest_. "That is lucky. Very few drugs cause the heart to slow down. He said there was a solution injected into his IV?"_

"_Yes,"_ Juliet answered without fielding the question to Shawn.

"_And what effect did it have on his eye sight?"_

"Jules, what's he saying?" Shawn asked.

"_The room appeared yellow,"_ Juliet said.

"_He was almost certainly given some type of digoxin,"_ The doctor said, taking off his stethoscope and putting it around his neck. _"Nurse, call down to the pharmacy and have a pharmacist bring up a dose of DigiFab. We need a real pharmacist, not an assistant."_

"Jules?" Shawn asked eagerly.

"They're getting the antidote," Juliet assured Shawn. "You will be fine."

Shawn looked at her and tried to smile, though she could see the fear in his eyes. She smiled down at him encouragingly.

* * *

Shawn felt sicker then he'd ever felt in his life. If he'd had anything to eat for the past 36 hours, he would have certainly vomited it up. As it was, his stomach was cramping painfully as it tried to expel whatever horrible drug Prize had pumped into his system. It would have been all right if the cramps were his only problem, but the drug seemed to be affecting his brain, too. His ability to comprehend Spanish had quickly descended from poor to non-existent, and everything he saw had a greenish yellow tint.

Juliet and his father looked jaundiced, Prize and the doctor both looked like yellow-skinned super villains, but, thankfully, Gus's skin was dark enough that the slight change in pigment didn't make a difference.

"They think you were given a digoxin, probably Lanoxin," Gus explained. "I saw a presentation on it last year. Basically, it's a highly processed digitalis."

"Digitalis," Shawn said. "That sounds so familiar."

"That's what the astronomer died of," Juliet supplied.

"Great," Shawn said with bitter sarcasm. "That's . . . just great."

"The pharmacist will be here soon with the DigiFab—the antidote. They'll just give you the injection and you can sit back and wait to feel better."

"That's what I was doing before," Shawn said. "It didn't turn out to well."

Shawn noticed commotion at the door. A white-haired woman in a lab coat walked in, followed by several nurses. The woman and the doctor started talking quickly in Spanish. Shawn tried to catch some of the words, but between his tenuous grasp on the language and drug playing tricks on his mind, it was all incompressible.

"What are they saying?" he asked Jules, who looked like she was following the conversation intently.

"I'm not totally sure," Juliet said. "There's a lot of medical jargon . . . I think they're discussing how much to give you."

Shawn sighed with frustration and closed his eyes. He was dying. Perhaps it was psychosomatic, but he could feel his life ebb out of him as his gut twisted in pain and his heart slowed to a stop. In his more rational moments, he would have admitted that dosage was important and he didn't want any more drugs in his body then absolutely necessary. But he was not rational at that moment. After what seemed like ages, but was probably less then a minute, the doctor and pharmacist stopped talking and produced a hypodermic needle.

The doctor spoke to Juliet, and she translated. "They think this will probably help you," she said. "If you don't feel better in ten minutes, they'll have to give you another injection."

Shawn nodded. "Bring it on."

The doctor tapped then needle, squirted out a few drops of the medicine, and then carefully injected it into Shawn's forearm. Shawn winced at the pain when the needle penetrated his skin but he didn't make a sound. Gus, on the other hand, whimpered and turned away.

"You're not even the one getting the shot," Shawn told his friend scornfully. "Man up."

"Oh, that's funny coming from you," Gus replied, though his back was to Shawn, so it seemed like he was talking to his reflection in the window. "Every year you chicken out of getting the flu shot."

"First off, I do not chicken out," Shawn said, addressing Juliet, not Gus. "It's a choice. Do you know how they make the flu vaccine?"

"No," Juliet admitted.

"They make it out of chicken fetuses. Poor little chicks who never had the opportunity fly free in open skies of a poultry farm."

Juliet smiled. "Chickens can't fly, Shawn," she informed him. "And I don't remember you being a vegetarian. In fact, I'm pretty sure I've seen you eat chicken on several occasions."

"Those were mature chickens who'd lived their life and died with honor," Shawn said. "It's totally different."

The doctor interrupted their conversation, speaking to Juliet in a measured, calming, almost hopefully voice. But before he was finished saying whatever he was saying, there was a knock on the door frame of the now, very crowded, room. Shawn turned and saw two uniformed police officers, who were sussing out the situation and looked confused. Behind them, there was a woman in a dark suit, looking suspicious. Shawn didn't know why, but he figured her for Federal.

His father approached the officers and started speaking in Spanish.

"Jules," Shawn said in a hushed voice. "You gotta translate for me."

"You're dad's just explaining about the IV and how we found Prize standing over you," Juliet said.

From the corner where he was handcuffed to the chair, Prize responded. He sounded angry.

"He says it's not true," Juliet said. "He says he was just standing by your bed, talking, and Henry attacked him, stole his handcuffs, and kept him there without reason. He accused you of being a drug smuggler and says poison in your system is probably something you took yourself."

The woman in the suit spoke next. She sounded authoritative.

"She said . . . " Juliet started.

"Who is she?" Shawn asked.

"Agent Swanson of the FBI," Juliet explained. "She said she received a tip that there would be an attempt on your life."

"Did she say who tipped her off?" Shawn asked.

"No, but it was me," Juliet explained.

"I love you, Juliet O'Hara," Shawn said as he smiled up at her

"Hush, I'm trying to listen," Juliet said dismissively.

The elder of the two police officers was saying something in a very reasonable tone of voice, apparently trying to pacify everyone in the room.

"He wants to know what was in the IV," Juliet explained

Then the doctor chimed in, he almost sounded angry.

"He explained the drug and said there is no way anyone would take it recreationally." Juliet said. "He also said anyone who knew anything about drugs would never take it without physician oversight because it's a well known toxin."

Prize looked startled and stammered a reply.

"He said you're framing him," Juliet told Shawn. "He says it's a plan to make you look innocent."

The officer started talking again.

"Juliet," Shawn said. "I'm getting a vision, and I'm going to need you to translate."

"You're getting a vision?" Juliet asked, she looked concerned. "Can you handle one in your current state?"

"I'll be fine," Shawn insisted. "Just translate."

"Ok."

"Ahhhhhh!" Shawn screamed as he squeezed his eyes shut and his hands flew to his temples. Everyone's attention was pulled off Prize and the police officer and directed back onto him. "I'm getting something, something strong."

He waited while Juliet translated and Gus explained.

"Prize was framed," Shawn said. "But not by us, no . . . not us. Someone else, someone who will do anything to shift blame. Someone who had done . . . Ahhh."

Juliet translated quickly, while the doctor grabbed Shawn's shoulder, forcing him back to the bed, and spoke quickly to the pharmacist.

"They're going to sedate you, Shawn," Gus said. "If you know who the bad guy is, you'd better talk quick."

"There's a note!" Shawn said. "A note, in Prize's pocket. A note written by the mastermind of this whole drug smuggling ring. Written by him, to shift the blame to someone else. Find the note!"

Juliet translated and Shawn could see that everyone was interested. The lead police officer walked over to Prize, and they started having a heated conversation.

"What's going on?" Shawn asked—his heart was starting to beat faster, not as rapidly as it normally did during an exciting and suspenseful reveal, but fast enough to know that the medicine was working.

"The officers want Prize to empty his pockets," Juliet said. "Prize refused and the officers said that, no matter what, they'll have to take him down for questioning and anything would be found at the station."

"And OxyContin," Shawn screamed. "He has the pills on him and you'll find more, in his car, in his house! Oh, I see it so clearly! You were a good cop, weren't you, Prize? You walked the beat every day, laying your life on the line until one day . . . one day it all changed."

"He was shot in the back," Gus supplied quickly.

"Yes!" Shawn yelled. "I see it but, no, I feel it!" He leaned forward and grabbed his back with his free right hand. "Oh, the pain it was excruciating!" He sad, his own voice warped with pain as the cramps in his stomach and his broken ribs protested at the theatrical movements.

"They gave you crap pills," Shawn continued. "And told you to tough it out, but they didn't understand, they didn't know how much it hurt! So finally someone came along and gave you the OxyCotin—" Shawn leaned back and forced his voice to change from a rough scream to a calming lilt. "And suddenly, you could work again, you could live again. But the drugs, the drugs that you needed so badly, they came with a price—and I'm not just talking about the shaky hands and the constant need for more. No, you had to protect the man who gave them to you. So, when his drugs killed a girl in Texas and the FBI came in like a tidal wave, he asked you to draw in the scapegoat he'd picked out years and years ago. Then when that scapegoat wouldn't play, he asked you to do more, he asked you to commit murder so the investigation would end and he could slip away with the millions he'd gotten form his illegal trade."

Shawn waited, while Juliet translated his tirade. He watched Prize's face follow the now familiar pattern of shock, defiance, fear, and eventually guilt. As soon as Juliet finished speaking, Prize started talking quickly and mournfully. Shawn had heard that tone of voice offend enough to know that the criminal was coming clean and, with any luck, pointing the finger at Ruiz.

"You were dead on," Juliet said, looking at Shawn with a relived and almost joyous smile. "He admitted everything. Ruiz gave him the OxyCotin for the past four years in exchange for protection. He was supposed to plant drugs on your mother, but when you came, they had to improvise. The whole thing, the arrest, the assault, it was all an attempt to draw out your mother and frame her. He claims he didn't know what he was injecting in your IV, but he did know it would kill you."

Shawn let out a sigh of relief, leaned back in his bed, and closed his eyes. The world was loosing its yellow tint, his heart was beating at a nice steady rate, and the criminal had confessed, fully clearing him and his mother from any wrongdoing. He heard people speaking very quickly in Spanish, it seemed that everyone had something to say, but he didn't bother asking Juliet to translate. He'd done what he came to Mexico to do—he'd kept his mom safe.

The End (with an epilogue to come)


End file.
